


Russian Roulette

by PaperGirlInAPaperTown, SumiSprite



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Adventure, Community: rotg_kink, Cossack!Sandy, Dreamwidth, F/M, Fairy!Pitch, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Frost Sprite!Bunny, Humour, Minor Original Character(s), Nightmare Prince!Jack, Parody, Pooka!North, Power Swap, Prompt Fill, Romantic Friendship, Romantic Subplot, Sandwoman!Tooth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2018-12-12 15:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11740002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperGirlInAPaperTown/pseuds/PaperGirlInAPaperTown, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumiSprite/pseuds/SumiSprite
Summary: FILL for the RotG KINKmeme by SumiSprite on Dreamwidth.Boredom can be such a terrible influence. Add the misuse of magic and chaos ensues. As they try to deal with their mismatched abilities, the last thing the Guardians and Pitch need is an opportunistic evil catching wind of their troubles. But that's just the beginning. With a new threat looming over children and their precious beliefs, old enemies will have to set aside their differences to face it. And they'll have to do so fast. There's just one problem: how are you supposed to save the world when your powers are "kaput"?NOW EDITED





	1. Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Welcome! Just a few things before we begin...
> 
> This is a prompt fill for Dreamwidth's RotG KINKmeme of the same name, and due credit goes to the brilliant SumiSprite (who is also my beta and makes some hefty contributions). This takes place after the events of the movie with minor references to Guardians of Childhood series. And yes, I love me a cavity fic. But while that will be one of the various subplots, it won't be the sole focus. This is supposed to be about everyone.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> 18 May 2018: UPDATE - While no one was looking I may have gone back and rearranged the scenes of the first three chapters. If this puts you out, worry not. Nothing has changed that will be a source of confusion later. This is purely an attempt to make this fic more engaging from the get go. It's up to you if you want to read the first three chapters again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Jack makes a startling discovery.

Pain.

That was the first thing to which Jack awoke. Pain, and a dizziness that had him convinced he could feel the earth spinning beneath him. His every muscle ached, his bones felt brittle as chalk, but worst of all was the relentless pounding in his head.

"What the…"

His vocal chords were shot. Coughing into the dirt _(dirt…?)_ he pushed himself onto his side and flopped over onto his back. In protest, his stomach lurched, and for a split second its contents rose to the back of his throat. He swallowed it down. 

It had to be a hangover. The worst hangover Jack’s three hundred years had ever seen. And that was including the time North decided to play mix-master with a few bottles of vodka, plus other questionable substances from his 'Strictly Off Limits to Sanderson Mansnoozy' liquor cabinet. He may have woken up in the arms of a still-hammered Phil with a splitting headache, but at least that morning he could rest assured in the knowledge that he hadn't wandered from the North Pole.

As it was, even his location was a mystery that eluded him.

Jack frowned as a gentle but cold breeze whispered its way over him. Normally, he would either relish the late October chill, or simply fail to notice it at all. However, the alien sensation of goosebumps peppering his skin alerted him to something startling: for the first time in his relatively short existence, he—Jack Frost, the Spirit of Winter—felt cold.

A disturbance of undergrowth a few feet away had him scrunch his face into a confused grimace. The noise grated at his eardrums, sounding more like nails scrabbling against wood. But it was only when he picked up on something (or someone) lurking nearby, and heard an unmistakable gasp, that he finally flashed his eyes open and sat bolt upright.

He was in a clearing. A woodland clearing of deciduous, bright trees on the cusp of Autumn's end…which seemed vaguely familiar. The air had a sharp chill typical of the season as he breathed it in, and on the wind, he could faintly smell the smoke of an open fireplace somewhere. _Not too far from civilisation, then…_ Blinking bleary eyes, Jack scanned the perimeter of the clearing. There was nothing around that might have made that noise, but prickling hairs on the back of his neck gave him the vaguest suspicion he was being watched. With his sights still set on the thicket, Jack stretched out his legs to shake the pins and needles from them before investigating further. At least, he would have. If his foot hadn't brushed against something unexpectedly rough and grainy. With a gasp, he retracted them again on a reflex, and tentatively glanced to the ground.

An almost offensively bright, golden figure with bedraggled hair lay directly in front of him, snoring softly and clutching the crumpled folds of a sari-like garment to their chest. Sand— _dreamsand_ —clung to clothes, skin and hair. It could have been Sandy, lost to one of his typical deep slumbers, but there was just one problem.

Jack had never known Sandy to own a dress of any description.

“Aw man…” 

At this point, Jack would have given his left arm in hopes that the little man had taken up a spontaneous interest in drag, perhaps amid some existential crisis. But as his foggy memories began to oblige, that possibility dwindled fast. Images flashed in his mind detailing a strange room, and within it even stranger words he couldn’t comprehend. And he suspected they were why he had found _not_ the sleeping form of a Sandman, but a Sand- _woman_. A sand-woman that looked a lot like…

"Tooth?"

Jack sucked in a sharp breath, and in approximately two seconds, bypassed the first four stages of grief entirely.

He was so dead. 

_~Yes~_ agreed a skin-crawling, shudder-inducing whisper. If he hadn’t already been winter incarnate, Jack’s blood would have turned to ice.

“Who said that?” he rasped.

_~But…maybe you can fix your latest screw up...before they wake up~_

It was as though the sneering voice had crawled into his brain and was niggling in his ear. With his heart sinking at how spiteful and malicious it sounded, Jack realised the voice may have spoken too soon. Something stirred out of the corner of his eye and he almost gave himself whiplash in discovering a mound of fluff and fuzz at his side.

A Pooka.

_~Too late…~_

Black ears and paws gave sharp contrast to snow-white fur, giving the Pooka a decidedly ermine appearance. He grunted and yawned, wriggling his nose as he dragged himself up to a seated position. Bright blue eyes blinked through an evident haze of confusion, and Jack held his breath until they roved around to lock on his own.

"Augh!"

The Pooka's scream of pure, unadulterated surprise had Jack cry out in turn, and the commotion caused those Jack had yet to account for to jerk awake. A dazed and stunted individual lurched up from the ground wearing the distinct expression of a slapped fish. Garbed in cherry red, he looked to all the world like a dwarf who'd jammed his fingers into an electrical socket, what with the frazzled shock of silvery-white hair he was sporting. Not to mention, he had an impressive beard to match.

"JACK…" 

Jack jumped to attention at the Pooka's growl and immediately recognised his heavy Russian brogue.

“…North?" He rubbed at his forehead, and his hand slid down his cheek as he tried to make sense of the monstrosity before him. What had _happened_ here?

"I gave _one_ instruction," North started lowly, "it was simple instruction, even elves could follow. But… What are you staring at?"

“…Huh?” Jack blinked and jolted out of his stupor. “Nothing! I'm not staring,” he assured North in an unusually strained voice. He most certainly was _not_ staring at the apparent Pooka-North's ridiculous ears that swivelled and twitched at the slightest noise, or his overwhelmingly hairy face that still seemed to have retained the lingering remains of his beard. Nor his baggy attire now several sizes too big for him. North narrowed his eyes, peered down, and screamed again when he saw how every square inch of himself was covered in fur.

"What is this…?" He lifted his arms, torn between fascination and outrage. At first, Jack thought he might rupture a vein. There were tendons bulging in his neck, his eye began to twitch, and though he opened his mouth, he only managed a strangled noise. "I am not happy, Jack," he eventually managed. " _Not_ happy."

"Keep it down...trying to sleep here…"

They both whipped around at the voice, and Jack was granted a reprieve from being mercilessly chewed out thanks to the grumblings of Tooth—or, who he was assuming to be Tooth. She gave a loud yawn and nestled her chin to her chest without opening her eyes. With his stare narrowing even further, North rose and marched over to where she was curled. With a startled yelp, he was floored mid-stride by a hole spontaneously opening beneath him. It brought him crashing down only to be half-wedged and comically contorted in the ground's gaping maw. Jack doubled over with a snort.

"Tooth," North rasped, "Toothie, please be waking up."

She began snoring again.

"Wake up!" 

Tooth’s eyes cracked open to find him only a few steps away. Taken aback by his peculiar stance on (or in) the ground, she squinted long and hard at the disgrace of a Pooka who could get himself stuck in his own tunnel. 

“Bunny, shove a boomerang up your tail," she mumbled.

North shook his head, looking slightly deranged. "No. Not Bunny."

Tooth sat up, wide awake now with an utterly bewildered expression plastered on her face. She looked once. She looked again. She pressed her fingers into her eyes and rubbed them just to be sure. 

“…North? Wha—I don't understand, you're…" She made a frantic gesture to all of him, spluttering her disbelief. It was then that she caught sight of her own faintly glowing hand. “My feath—! What happened to my…WHAT HAPPENED?!” North hissed and winced, tugging down his hypersensitive ears.

“Please. Don’t screech like that again.” Jack begged, resisting the urge to crawl into the foetal position and cover his own ears. Having snagged her attention, Tooth's face paled when she set eyes on him.

"J—Jack? No. No, this has to be a dream," she assured herself as she stood. Sand particles shaken free drifted to the ground around her. "A really weird…" She gasped suddenly and clenched her fists. "Ooh! If Sandy decided to have a nightcap again, I'm going to strangle him!"

"I don't think that's a good idea. Poor bloke's already lookin' like a stunned mullet."

Had Tooth's scream been pitched any higher, she might have caused North to pass out. Jack startled to find arms wrapped around his head, suffocating and blinding him to the outside world.

"Tooth…can't brea—"

"Who are you?!” he heard her cry.

"Bloody hell, Tooth, it's me!"

" _Bunny?_ Why in the name of Manny's dangling stones are you—?!" Tooth let out yet another scream, flailing to keep her balance when Jack escaped from her vice grip. Although, to say he _disappeared_ would be more accurate. He found himself in the shade on the opposite side of the clearing, gasping for air, with no clear idea of how he'd got there.

"I thought you were going to strangle Sandy, not—" Jack almost choked on his own spit. He had seen. He had seen exactly what Tooth had tried to shield his impressionable eyes from, and it reduced him to a shaking ball of repressed, hysterical laugher.

"The hell is going on here?" Bunny asked, ignoring Jack's antics as per the norm. "Crikey, you guys look shocking."

"Speak for yourself," Jack wheezed from the ground.

"Bunny," Tooth hissed, "I…can you…ugh, do you mind?" She had her hands cupped into blinders around her eyes, her face flushed ten shades of red. Ever oblivious, Bunny merely stared back.

"Do I mind 'what'?"

"It seems you have not assessed…ahem…entire situation, my friend," North interjected from his hole.

"What're you galahs yakking on…" Bunny broke off into a garbled, unintelligible cry when he found the Pooka. The Pooka who was wearing _his_ pelt, who was stuck down one of _his_ tunnels, and who had singlehandedly induced in him something akin to an out of body experience. Bunny chanced a reluctant look at himself. Much to Jack's eternal amusement, his reaction did not disappoint.

"Bleedin' MOONROCKS, what the-?!" Beneath a mop of frosty white hair, Bunny gawked at his own unfamiliar form, flexing fingers he'd never possessed and trying to make sense of them. "I'm…I'm…"

"Naked," Jack blurted before succumbing to another round of howling laugher.

"I was gonna say _human_ , you snow-loving arsewipe," Bunny snapped. He groaned into his hands. "This isn't happening."

"If only!" Tooth grumbled, looking to the sky for a divine intervention that might see Bunny acquire some modesty. Sandy, having recovered from his slight disorientation, chose that moment to join the congregation. He immediately turned on his heel to walk away again, mildly traumatised. Understandably, the little man had seen far too much. North only just managed to snag the neck of his robe as he passed.

“But…but _why?_ ” Bunny asked the group. 

The now Russian Pooka—a strange and scary notion despite his new fuzzy exterior—panned his narrowed gaze back to Jack. “Yes, Jack. I would also like to be knowing _why_ ,” North said in mock cheerfulness as he struggled to hoist himself out of the ground. Tooth shuffled over to assist Sandy in pulling him up. 

"Frostbite? You gotta be joking,” Bunny said.

"You had _one_ job…" North grunted as he clambered to freedom, " _ONE JOB._ Not to touch books! Yet there you go! _Why_ go and touch books and when I say _NO_?"

Jack really wasn't too sure of how to reply. Quite frankly, he barely had any idea what North was referring to. The book part made sense. Sort of. Otherwise, he knew only of strange words found in an even stranger room.

_~You do know, Jack. You know why you did this and you know what you wanted. Is this everything you thought it would be?~_

"Shut up," he muttered.

“What did you say?" 

Jack looked up to find North regarding him with the sternness of a parent whose child had the nerve to talk back.

"I didn't…not you, uh…" He tripped over his own tongue, trying to invent the explanation of a century. However, his defence was interrupted by the moving of a very odd-looking bush a few feet away from them.

"What is that?" Tooth asked more to herself than the others, though they were all wondering the same. They exchanged dubious glances before Sandy armed himself with a stick for good measure, and drew slowly, cautiously nearer to it. When it moved again they froze in place, stalk-still. They could now see that this thing, which appeared rather soft as it ruffled and rippled in the breeze, was made up of something lustrous; a swirling mix of greenish-blue and black, adorned with a hundred iridescent eyes that stared at them, unblinking.

"Sandy. Poke it."

This earned Jack an eye roll from the little man, as well as a decent thump upside the head from an obliging Bunnymund. Tooth hushed them both.

"Wait a second. It's breathing," she said. Curiosity got the better of them, and they moved closer yet again. But as they did, the downy pile tossed and turned fitfully, revealing itself to be a someone they knew. 

Someone who caused them to gasp in varying degrees of alarm when they saw his face.

“Toothie," croaked North, “I think we have found what happened to missing feathers.”

Jack stumbled back in shock, knocking squarely into Bunny.

“Watch it, mate.”

“No… No, no, no. How did _he_ get here?!” Tooth half-whispered, her wrung hands drawn to her chest as she recoiled from the scene. The same question reverberated around Jack’s head as he stared at that ashen face, now framed by feathers and dead to the world. 


	2. A Never Ending Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, the Nightmare King demands some time to brood.

Deep underground, the stagnant air of the cavernous shadow realm was disturbed by footsteps clipping an empty stone floor. Steady but cautious, they approached the grandiose, obsidian throne that rose from the centre of the labyrinthine lair. They sought an audience with the one who graced its seat. The lithe figure, cloaked in the most decadent black velvet, slouched elegantly upon the dais. An elbow propped up to rest a fist against his cheek. The monochrome of his complexion was broken only as he irritably cracked a golden eye open.

“What is it now?” Pitch Black demanded of the thing that had disturbed his brooding.

Upon being addressed, two yellow eyes appeared, like twin stars shining eerily from out of the shadows. A mare composed of black sand that glimmered with a subtle iridescence emerged and bowed her head. His brow raised in mild interest.  

“What news?”

The Nightmare whickered and snorted, her hoof pawing at the ground. From behind her, two others of the same make came into the half-light, their eyes averted to the floor in the presence of their former master. His pale lips pulled back in a smile of pointed teeth. 

“I see.” 

Pitch rose effortlessly from his seat and descended the steps to greet his fussing creation with a stroke of her muzzle.

“So. You’ve found more of the others?” he asked softly. 

The dark horse, Onyx, nudged him in an affirmative reply. 

“You have done well,” Pitch praised with a scratch behind her ear. 

There was a gleam of pride Onyx couldn’t help but express at his approval, and it compelled her to shoot a conspicuously smug glance back at the riffraff that had followed her in. 

“As for these two…” Pitch’s gaze followed suit, and narrowed to a frightening glare. “If you’ve finally come crawling back here after all this time, know you have only one chance to prove yourselves. That’s all. You’ll find I won’t be nearly as lenient this time, and my patience is incredibly thin, so you would do well not to test it.”

The delinquent Nightmares shifted uncomfortably, shamefaced and reluctant to be in the fearsome Boogeyman’s presence. Though, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice in the matter. After turning on their King, leaching him of his power, and leaving him for dead, the horde of Nightmares had escaped out into the world. In the months that followed the end of the Nightmare War, they had run rampant and unbridled, feeding off the dreams of children, and turning them into terrifying visions. But liberty from their master’s reign had come at a cost. Without him, they slowly began to deteriorate until not even fear could sustain them. Weakening one by one, those that had not been found and destroyed by the Guardians had since come back to grovel with tails between their legs.

“While I’m perfectly content to be a gracious host — despite how I was  _blatantly stabbed in the back,”_ Pitch continued with venom piercing his every word, “if I hear so much as a whisper out of line, there will be consequences.” To demonstrate, his slender, grey fingers conjured a scale-perfect Nightmare in miniature, only to then crush it in his fist and let the lifeless, black granules trickle to the ground. “Understood?” 

It was all his former subjects could do to not outright flinch, and by their ears pinned against their heads, Pitch was reassured these Nightmares wouldn’t dare try anything on the sly. He had to restrain himself from breathing a sigh of relief.  

“One last thing,” he added coldly, “I won’t forbid you from spreading fear; if anything, I encourage it. I myself have ventured out to darken a dream or two in recent months, but I have never allowed myself more than that on any given night. You must do the same. The only reason I don’t have those freaks battering down my door is because I’ve been prudent. And you will not ruin that for me. So, fulfil your purpose, but don’t let any other spirits see you, and be sure to exercise some self-control. Or else.”

A meek whickering was their agreement; they knew better than to protest any of his demands, should they give him reason to unleash the full extent of his wrath.

“Excellent,” he said, deadpan. “Now get out of my sight.” 

The two contrite mares turned tail and fled for the various sprawling passages of his home before he had the chance to change his mind. When Pitch was sure they were both out of sight and earshot, he let his hard-set expression fall, and gave an audible, weary sigh. 

With the Nightmares having become a permanent fixture confined to his realm, he had to be constantly on guard to ensure the wretched things didn’t revive the idea that he was some sort of easy meal, and sometimes the constant facade was exhausting. He had no choice but to command their respect with threats that were by no means empty, and make examples of the wayward ones who dared to defy him. It wasn’t something he enjoyed. After all, it was he who had brought the Nightmares into being in the first place, and he was nothing if not an artist who took pride in the craftsmanship of his work. 

But that was the problem it seemed. He had been too focused on their build and power, and had neglected to develop what little integrity and minute loyalty they had. The mistake of aesthetic over function was one all artists made, but in most cases, such mistakes didn’t come back to bite them in the arse. At least, not literally… 

Snarling at the thought, Pitch stalked up the steps to dramatically flop back into the seat of his throne. A scowl was etched on his gaunt face as he massaged his temples to fend off the headache he felt coming on. He’d only had his eyes closed for a second before he sensed something looming directly in front of him. Opening them again, he was met with a face inches from his own. Onyx stared at him. 

“What?”

She gave an indignant nicker and snuffled at his hand, as was her usual way of demanding his attention

“Really?” he drawled, exaggerating his exasperation. “That wasn't enough gratitude for you?”

Her hoof pawed at the ground. That would be a no. And she would stand there until he caved.

“Well, my apologies,  _your highness_.” Far less vexed than he pretended to be, he obliged with a stroke of her mane. None of his minions or fearlings would even think of being so familiar, but Pitch excused Onyx because he trusted her as something of a confidante and second in command. Particularly where disciplining the others was concerned. “Thank you for bringing them in. It would be a shame if the fat man or any of the others got their hands on them when we might be able to salvage a few, hm?” 

Onyx emitted a rumbling snort of agreement with a single equine jerk of her head. She was under no illusions of the other Nightmares’ troublesome behaviour. Even so, Pitch couldn’t quite fathom why the mare resolved to be so faithful. He supposed she was the first he had created, and therefore the one he had taken the most care with before his confidence had turned to carelessness—then again, perhaps she just liked the attention. 

Whatever the reason, Pitch owed a great deal to her diligence. And if he was honest with himself (which he very rarely was), his very life might have been spared by her efforts to stave the savage traitors off that fateful Easter Monday.

He trailed his hand down the neck of the creature, and followed the ribbons and tendrils of nightmare sand that formed her rippling mane. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice how she huffed when his attention drifted elsewhere. The granules intertwined with his fingers, and he pulled some of them away to have them dance at the ready to do his bidding. It was a pleasing sight. A small victory when he’d had to practically teach himself to wield the sand again. He tried his luck with his scythe; it formed perfectly, and was comfortably weighty in his grasp. Satisfied, he broke it back down into a whirlwind of delicate crystals and smirked to himself.

Yes, weapons were easy to produce. Sentient beings, on the other hand…they required a great deal more energy. He found he could manage small things; a rat for instance, or a lizard. Though, infuriatingly, he was limited to nothing larger than a rabbit… 

Pitch started. The sand had shaped his thoughts exactly in his brief lack of focus. Small, but nonetheless menacing, the rabbit leered up at him to display its horrid teeth, bearing far too much of a resemblance to another long-eared vermin he loathed. He swiped at the laughable excuse of a Nightmare and it disintegrated to an angry sandstorm. 

Truth be told, Pitch was fed up with licking his wounds. Yes, he’d suffered a great loss at the hands of the Guardians—possibly his biggest setback in living memory—but he was ready to move on. To wipe his memory clean and perhaps start over somehow. The only problem was, the act of forgetting was made nearly impossible when he was constantly surrounded by bitter reminders of his failure.

Case in point: his damned Globe of Belief. 

From where he sat, Pitch could see its rounded silhouette on the plateau below, and he eyed it with utter contempt. Intended as a gift from the Man in the Moon himself once upon a very different time, the metallic sphere now only served as a mockery of his very existence. Instead, he’d chosen to throw a sheet over its golden lights, hoping they would just fade into the shadows. He didn’t want anything more to do with them or the Guardians they truly served. But even now those lights of child believers emitted a faint glow from beneath the thin, black fabric; never quite dimmed and too difficult to ignore. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to destroy it. All he had was the power to look away… And cast his gaze over the empty cavities where he’d deigned to keep the stolen memories of childhood before his most promising plans were shattered.

Pitch clenched his fist and it closed around something sharp that cut into the skin of his palm. With a gasp, he wrenched it open again to find his sand had taken the shape of a tooth. A baby tooth. Quickly waving it into oblivion, he frowned at how such a small and delicate looking thing could cause him so much pain. 

Much like the thief of teeth, herself.

A few days after he was unceremoniously socked in the jaw by the fairy’s surprisingly nasty right hook, Toothiana had seen fit to somehow pry her way into, and ransack, his home. To take back what was rightfully hers. She had barked orders at her fairies, and made feeble attempts to ward him off with both rapiers drawn—not that he’d had the strength to confront her at the time. Pitch had melted into the shadows the minute he had sensed her intrusion, and stayed hidden to silently observe that she didn’t steal what was not belonging to her. But while Toothiana and her minions had pilfered nothing, some of the mini-fairies had had a bone to pick with his décor. With needle-like swords and nimble fingers, the swarm attempted to down as many of his cages as they could in a petty display of revenge. The blasted things had been precariously creaking and groaning ever since.

It wasn’t like he could have driven them out, either. With his Nightmares gone and the loyal Onyx completely outnumbered, he was forced to endure that ridiculous bird and her puff-balls as they hauled their loot away for almost two hours! And in that time, he had still been unable to determine whether her boldness was driven by bravery or stupidity. All he knew from her fears was that she had radiated cold dread at the thought of seeing him. Luckily for her, he’d had no desire to be seen. In fact, he would have sooner gouged out his own eyes with a spoon. The last thing he needed was Toothiana, Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies, to find him in such a pitiful state.

Pitch became abruptly aware that he still had an audience. Onyx had been watching his practice with unblinking curiosity. Only now she recoiled in distain. 

“Something wrong, little mare?” 

His sneer disappeared when he saw what she was staring at. Held in the cradling palm of his hand was the miniature silhouette of a dark fairy. He spluttered, abhorred. Having unwittingly conjured the source of his irritation was an unpleasant surprise, to say the least. At most it was downright mortifying for reasons he could not—would not—acknowledge. Curling his lips into a snarl, he made to destroy the Nightmare Toothiana. But he froze. His hand stopped short of seizing and crumpling its wings, and for a moment, his expression fell into something strange and unreadable. A defeated sigh escaped him. He withdrew his hand, and the figurine decomposed, drifting to dust on the ground. Perplexed, Onyx started towards him, but in doing so, she broke his trace. Pitch snapped his head up with a blank stare. Then he remembered himself. His face darkened with a menacing glare.

“Have you forgotten your duties?” he asked on a growl that gradually grew to a shout. “Aren’t there perimeters you could be checking? Delinquents to be keeping in line?! Don’t just stand there, get back to work!”

Although a little put out by her master’s typically sudden mood-swing, Onyx left accordingly, shrieking a warning to the others that resounded to the depths of the realm.

With a whip of his arm, Pitch dispersed the rest of the sand. He had well and truly lost all patience and being still for much longer was going to drive him to the brink of insanity. Melding with the shadows that writhed as his indignation mounted, he left his throne behind and reformed on the highest walkway overlooking his sinking city of a domain.

He clutched the banister, trying to remember the last time he had felt some semblance of control over his life. The night he had managed to lure in Jack Frost, perhaps? No; even that had been the beginning of the slippery slope to his downfall. Suffice to say, it was no understatement to say that Pitch Black wasn’t known for his hospitality. He assured himself he preferred it that way, too. 

In fact, on the whole Pitch thought he’d succeeded in convincing himself that this was the most content he’d been since before the war even began. There was no one to needlessly bother him; no more than a bad dream here or there kept the Guardians out of his business and his concerns—save for the meddlesome Fairy Queen. And as long as he kept his wits about him, the Nightmares were manageable. 

So why couldn’t he just bloody well forget about it already? 

The creaking of strained chains from above gave him an answer to that question, of sorts. Glowering skyward, Pitch’s scowl was met with the hundreds of cages suspended from his ceiling. He flared his nostrils through an exasperated breath. Another failure. Another waste of his precious resources.

A prickling of his skin brought Pitch out of the storm that raged within. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Gauging his surroundings, he tilted his head in concentration. Listening. Watching. Waiting.

Something wasn’t right.

Though what it was, he couldn’t put his finger on exactly. It was subtle, like a disturbance in the air, but much less tangible. As unease crept its way down his spine, he mentally reached for the Nightmares in his control, checking to make sure they weren’t about to stage an uprising. He heard nothing. Everything was quiet and thus in perfect order. 

What in the name of darkness…?

Craving the safety of somewhere more enclosed, Pitch intended to open a shadow portal and move to the confines of his personal library for the time being. He waved his hand in a commanding arc and anticipated the comforting free-fall into nothingness. Except this time, nothing happened. Frowning, he tried again. And again. And again. Each attempt grew more desperate, but he only achieved the same alarming result.

“No…”

It was with a pounding heart that Pitch noticed something he had hoped to never feel again for the rest of his long life: panic. Icy, dreadful panic that pooled in his belly and tightened his throat. Thinking quickly, he tried to summon his nightmare sand, but that didn’t work either. Not even a spec found its way to him.

“Impossible,” he rasped, and raked a thin hand through the crest of his hair. 

If he was using both facets of his power without issue only moments ago…why weren’t they working now? In his confusion, his heart began race, and he felt it leap into his mouth when he realised that the Nightmares would be able to smell the anxiety rolling off him a mile away. 

Wait. The Nightmares…

Suddenly, that silence that had been so reassuring a moment ago did not bode well at all. Pitch tried to reach them again with a mental command, but he received no answer. Complete radio silence. Even his connection to Onyx was severed.

“No!”

Pitch could deny it all he wanted, but there was nothing he could do to escape the terrible truth: for whatever reason, the forces of fear and darkness were no longer answering to him, and worse, he hadn’t a clue how to fix them. He needed to run. Needed to escape. He was far too vulnerable out in the open, and his attempts to maintain a clear head were not helped by the almighty screech and groan of rusted steel that sounded above him. 

Before Pitch could heed the warning that he was in very real danger, two things finally snapped. 

The first was arguably his sanity when he remembered he knew exactly what this unsettling foreboding was, and better yet, why his powers might have left him in the lurch. 

The second was the chain tethering the cage directly above where he was standing to the ceiling. He hardly managed to look up before it began to fall. 

— O —

"He's going to be so mad…"

"Aren't peacocks a little like geese when they're pissed?"

"I swear to the flippin' Moon, Jack…"

"Maybe we leave him?"

"We can't do that! …Can we?"

"Do you wanna deal with him when he wakes up? Yeah nah, I would prefer my limbs still attached to me when we're done here, thanks."

Pitch drew a long, quiet breath, and willed himself not to move a muscle. Though their harsh chatter was nothing short of nauseating, he couldn’t let these spirits—for they had to be spirits—know that he was, in fact, awake. He had been eavesdropping on their bizarre conversation as he had gradually regained consciousness, trying to pick up the clues where they dropped. But even so, he was struggling to understand how he had ended up…wherever he was. The voices sounded to be mere feet away from where he was sprawled, and those they belonged to had obviously abducted him to enact a vengeful plot, which would explain (at least, in part) why he ached down to his bones. They must have caught him while he was asleep and off guard. Though, how Pitch could have possibly fallen asleep at any point was beyond him; he took every precaution to ensure he eluded sleep for as long as he was physically capable. So, unless he had not slept willingly…

_Jack._

Someone had mentioned that name.

Mouth suddenly dry, his adrenaline surging, Pitch’s heart threw itself against his ribcage. He knew these voices. He knew them terribly, awfully well. This was no time to be playing dead. _Fight or flight. Fight or flight. Fight or..._ Painstakingly propping himself up on battered elbows, the head-rush of overexertion was forgotten when he found himself face-to-face with what was, in his honest opinion, the most hideous nightmare ever conceived. An assembly of five spirits peering down at him instantly recoiled when they saw he was awake. He even gleaned an emphatic "Oh crap," from the more humanoid one of them.

Pitch wasn't entirely sure what he was looking at. These were most certainly the Guardians he knew and loathed, but at present they more resembled a menagerie of sideshow oddities. And given how intimately acquainted he'd been with all the mystical horrors Coney Island had once boasted a century or more ago, that was saying something. Beneath the aged, furry animal hugging his face, Pitch had to assume was Sanderson, for the little man was as short and stout as ever. The Rabbit appeared to have had a dye job, his usual grey fur bleached to a pelt as white as virgin snow—though why he was wearing crimson slacks and a shirt so ill-fitting, Pitch could not say. And Toothiana…to even attempt looking at her was to risk destroying his retinas. His gaze panned over to an unfamiliar, side-burned face, tanned, with a full head of crisp, white hair, and…good Gods… Quickly averting his eyes once more, they landed on Frost. The boy looked the most peculiar of all with paled spectral skin, pinched cheeks, and eyes so shadowed they may have been smudged by soot. Even his hair, which was usually a snowy, unruly mess, was just as untidy but now almost as black as Pitch's own—and was he wearing a cape? Voice scratchy with disuse, Pitch finally broke the long and painful silence. 

“I suppose I should congratulate you on getting into to the spirit of Halloween with such fervour.” He paused as he looked them over with increasing confusion. “…However dismal the result.”

"Hang on." The man—the real Rabbit, Pitch deduced from the severe Australian twang—narrowed his still-vivid, green eyes. "You rat…you did this!" he exclaimed.

Slack-jawed, Pitch raised a brow. "Excuse me?"

“You found a way to bring nightmares to the waking world and turned us all into freaks! If I didn’t want your guts for garters before…”

"I must say I’m flattered, but none of you ever needed my help for that," Pitch interrupted. Bunny started forward as murderous intent flashed across his face. Feeling decidedly less smug, Pitch scrambled back in a panic, his feet scrabbling at the ground. He would later scold himself for being so pathetic. “As much as it would bring me endless delight to take the credit, I can't be blamed for whatever monumental screw up caused this,” he declared hurriedly. "I don't even know what _this_ is, or how I got here! I was…" 

He was… What _had_ he been doing? 

The last Pitch recalled he had been at home. There was a residual anger just below the surface, that much he knew. He had been contemplating those cages, too. Right before one of them had the gall to drop directly on top of, and mangle, him. But then it hadn't. Something had saved him. And then it had thrown him to the mercy of the Guardians.

"Easy, Bunny. This was not Pitch's doing," said North, restraining Bunny by a firm grip on his shoulder while still training a wary eye on Pitch.

“So, it was Frostbite, then?" Bunny growled. North gave a haggard sigh, as though the answer pained him.

"Are you telling me this isn't some absurd hallucination? And I'm not suffering a concussion?" A deeply amused grin split Pitch’s harsh features. He found himself trying to speak through mirthful chuckles. "Not only do you all look like you've been shoved into a blender, you're actually stuck like this?" Unable to restrain himself, his uproarious cackle resounded through the clearing, stunning his onlookers into a dumb silence. In fact, so entertained was Pitch, that he missed all together the smug smirk that slid across Jack's face.

"Yeah, you better believe it."

Jack's devious tone roused enough suspicion in Pitch that his laugher soon died. Gasping for breath through a slight choke, he brought a hand to his chest, only to have it sink into a layer of something soft…which was very much attached to him.

He wasn't laughing anymore. 

Pitch could have sworn in that instant his cold, shrivelled heart stopped beating all together. Sliding up to his throat, his fingers carded though that which was downy and _hurt_ when brushed the wrong way. All the while, Jack's expression had not changed. And now he noticed the peculiar curiosity of the others who were, wisely, keeping their distance. He drew shaking hands to his chest and grabbed tufts of…feathers.

They were _feathers._

"What in the ever-loving fuck is this?" he rasped, looking to all of them with a glare of inexpressible fury.

"That is, uh, good question,” North said.

Pitch blinked. _Good question?_ "That's not an answer!" he snarled. Attempting to climb to his feet, he had about as much grace as a drunken leprechaun on account of treading on something connected to the base of his spine. With a pained cry, he dropped back to the ground, and found pooled around him the dizzyingly colourful appendage that he hadn't accounted for; a tail of luxurious plumage which dazzled in the dying afternoon light.

"I look ridiculous."

"The most ridiculous of all," Bunny agreed, thrilled by how poorly Pitch was taking the news. "And that’s not even mentioning the wings."

Pitch’s mouth gaped open. "No."

"Oh yeah." Jack nodded. "Check 'em out."

Pitch strained his neck and caught a glimpse of the horrific contraptions sprouting from his back, iridescent and shimmering as they twitched. Staggering to his feet with the utmost care this time, his peacock inspired show-plumage cascaded to the ground, trailing behind him in the fashion of his old cloak.

"I'm a fairy," he croaked. It was more a statement rather than a question as he examined the gold-accented feathers at his wrists.

"Well, technically you’re not a _fairy_ , as such," Tooth said nervously, "the whole 'fairy' thing is just easier for kids to understand. Fairies are better known as Sisters of Flight, but—"

"I don't give a damn about the technicalities," Pitch interrupted through gritted teeth, "what I want is for someone change me back. Now!"

"But you're so pretty," Jack teased.

With a snarl, Pitch threw out his arm to fling an unforgiving barrage of nightmare sand at the impish boy. But when none appeared, and there was no electrifying tingle at the tips of his fingers, he was abruptly reminded that he _couldn't._ And nor could he read their fears. There was nothing of that sense that was neither touch, taste, sight, smell or sound. Melancholia gave way to numbness as he stared at the hand that had failed him, and for a fleeting moment Pitch couldn't have cared less if the Guardians decided to finish him off then and there. For what was he—what was _any_ spirit without power? However, when no brutal hits came, he was overcome with enough curiosity to glance up. 

The Moon's misfits, despite their unconventional appearances, looked every bit a unit of formidable warriors in attack formation. But rather than raining down fire and brimstone upon him, they stood frozen. And on the faces of those who might have once been able to produce their own defensive magic, were dawning expressions of crestfallen shock.

"Wait…" Pitch's hand dropped to his side, useless. "You can't either, can you?" He found his answer in their delicious terror-stricken expressions, and though they were (tragically) wasted on him, they were appreciated nonetheless; now he could be sure it was a level playing field. His mouth spread into a spiteful grin and he chuckled deep in his chest, his confidence making a sterling comeback. "No…the great and revered _Guardians_ are virtually powerless," he deduced on a purr. Beginning a stalking pace around them, his eyes flashed menacingly as he assessed each of them in morbid fascination. "Tell me," he said, coming to a halt in front of Jack, the last to be scrutinised, "how does it feel to have a taste of your own medicine?"

The boy didn't have the chance to retort. Glaring at Pitch and determined not prove him right, Sandy pushed up the sleeves of his newly red robe, and raised his hands to summon a decent deluge of dreamsand. Much to the Dreamweaver's surprise, however, the intended force produced a kickback so powerful it sent him rocketing across the clearing, and back into the trunk of a tree, without a grain of sand to show for his efforts. His colleagues winced and grimaced while Pitch's lip upturned in a mirthful sneer.

"Sandy, are you alright?" North called. The little man raised a shaky thumb before collapsing back down with the wind knocked out of him.

"See?" Pitch concluded. "My point exactly." 

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Tooth warned him. Throwing out ill-practiced hands, she aimed to stage her own assault. But instead of striking true, the tendril of dreamsand she produced whipped around and caught Bunny by the wrist, sending him into a headlong collision with North. The resultant impact left them both frozen in place; North with half his fur frosted over, and Bunny rooted to the spot out of sheer terror of his newfound abilities.

"At least try next time, Toothiana," Pitch drawled over the cacophony of groans and general chaos. Jack was the only one who had managed to remain unscathed through it all, but even his face was one of abject dismay and confusion.

"Wait, if Bunny can freeze things, that means-"

"You're either no longer the only frost sprite, or you're no longer a frost sprite at all," Pitch finished for him with bored affect. "I'd be inclined to think the latter, since you haven't even noticed you've been without that twig this entire time."

What little colour was left in Jack's face drained away as he frantically glanced around for the conduit that had been with him for as long as he'd been alive. He spotted his staff over where Bunny had woken, but felt no pull towards it, no connection. It was nothing more than a twisted tree branch.

"I don't have any powers," Jack said. He collected his staff and turned it over in delicate hands.

"On the contrary, I believe what you have are _different_ powers," Pitch corrected with a cold, unsympathetic smile. "And by process of elimination… Let's just say I would be most intrigued if you gave them a try."

With a brief, nauseated look in Pitch's direction, Jack turned a palm to the sky. Waggling his fingers slightly, he focused all his energy on that one action. It produced a faint wisp of black sand that coiled away from him and dispersed into the air when he lost control of it. This did not escape the others, who flinched when they realised what it meant.

“I can control nightmares,” Jack said breathlessly. “I have your powers…which makes me the Nightmare King.”

Pitch scowled. "Not in the slightest. You are hardly a King. However...there's no reason why you couldn't be a Fearling Prince."

The part of Jack somewhat revelling in this new title didn't register the horrified stares that that offhanded comment gleaned.

"You bastard, I swear with every—"

"Do shut up, Bunnymund," Pitch drawled. "For the last time, if I'd had a hand in this, I would have made sure I didn't come out of it looking like some glorified chicken. And for the love of everything still scared in this world, _put on some damn clothes_." He looked pointedly at Jack before adding, "There is a child present."

"Says you with your bloody dress cut down to Tasmania."

"That's a cloak, you dense idiot," Pitch snapped before he faltered. "...At least it was. I may look like I've just disembowelled a pillow, but at least I'm decent. Or did you lose your eyesight along with your dignity?"

Unable to fling back a wittier retort, Bunny grumbled, “Rack off, ya sad sack." To this Pitch cocked his head and squinted.

"Speaking of a sad sack…"

"Alright! Alright," Bunny conceded at last, glaring daggers. "It's getting a bit nippy out here anyway. North, you heard twinkle-toes, surrender the pants." The Pooka appeared abashed and voiced his reluctance, but quickly relinquished the oversized garments when both Bunny and Pitch shouted "Now!" in unison.

“Alright,” Bunny said as he fastened the slacks around his waist as best he could, “I’m dressed, I’m decent, and I’m getting real fed up with your little guessing game. What the bloody hell happened here? 

North looked around at the scrutinising faces with their sights trained on him. He breathed a long sigh, and regarded Jack—whose face was blank as a slate—with weary defeat.

“Let us start from the beginning, then,” he said.


	3. The Importance of Being Earnest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, someone should have told Jack to be careful what you wish for.

“Bored.”

Slumped in North's creaky desk chair as it idly spun, Jack stared up at the ceiling of the private workshop. He slowed to a stop. Heaving a long sigh barely audible above the rapid tapping of chisel on ice, he kicked off with his heel to send himself turning again.

“Eh? Was not catching that,” North said before he set his chisel down. He puffed a breath and blew off any loose ice shavings that drifted to the ground in a gentle snowfall. Presently, he was bent awkwardly over his worktable, standing rather than sitting since Jack had taken his favourite chair hostage.

"I said, I'm bored." As Jack creaked to a halt once again, he lifted his staff to touch its crook to the ceiling, and watched with blatant indifference while lazy whorls of ice spiralled their intricately patterned way over the oaken panels above. Jack knew he sounded very close whining. At this point, he couldn't find the energy to care.

Leaning against the edge of the sturdy table, North tweaked the propeller of his model plane prototype. All the while, he raised a dubious, bushy brow at the back of Jack’s hoodie-clad head. “Impossible,” he retorted. “You are Jack Frost, no? You cannot be bored.”

Jack uttered a mirthless laugh. “I know, right? It's like a Christmas miracle."

Truthfully, Jack had found himself in a bit of a slump. If his centre was fun, then his bout of boredom was a disease that chewed away at his creativity and zeal. And for someone usually so intent on keeping himself occupied, it was alarming to think he was running low on ideas for a cure.

"I'm just saying—"

"No roller chair derby," North droned over him without taking his eyes off the sculpture, shutting down their earlier debate. He took hefty strides to the end of the table where his chainsaw was sitting before adding, "Not until after Christmas. Is not good idea."

Jack swiveled and fixed North with a wounded frown. Actually, it would have been nothing short of _genius._ Especially when the yetis were perfectly capable of procuring rocket boosters for any occasion. But even with a high-powered tool now in the hands of Nicholas St. North—a former bandit—Jack could not be persuaded to drop the matter.

“You know, if I had known you were all so serious about this deadline thing that you couldn’t even consider taking a break, I would never have become a Guardian.”

North smirked to himself. “Never, you say?”

“Oh yeah.” Jack crossed his arms despite still holding his staff. “You’re all terrible for my work ethic. 

“Bah! What work ethic?”

“Exactly! I’ve got a carefree lifestyle to maintain here.” 

The room reverberated with North’s deep chuckle. Jack was joking to an extent, but deep down this was one of the few times he was being serious. Frustratingly it seemed, while he thrived on an open schedule with no rules, his colleagues found solace in an endless flow of work, forever chasing perfection in the name of duty and devotion. Tooth was a workaholic obsessed with incisors and molars; Sandy was next to useless in much the same way. When the little man wasn't weaving dreams, he was passed out on the Island of Sleepy Sands, creating new visions for when he would later chase the setting sun.

“So, go maintain carefree lifestyle,” North suggested with a shrug.

“How? You’re busy, and so are the others. Plus, Bunny might actually throw me into one of his dye pools if I joke about freezing them over one more time.” 

“What about Jamie? Or friends of Jamie?”

“Nope. It’s the middle of semester. I can’t drag him away from his desk for two seconds before he starts worrying about homework, and school, and…do you think there’s something wrong with the American education system?”

“If there is, it is not only one.”

“Anyway, it’s too early for snow there, so I can’t even give them the means to a day off. And for some reason, I can’t work up the energy to do—”

“What you are meant to be doing?” North interrupted with a sly intonation. 

Jack puffed his cheeks with a breath, conceding defeat. His itch for something to do had become insatiable, yet the thought of going out and stirring up a bit snow in the frigid air was something that unsettled him at present, which meant it was better avoided. Even throwing a snowball down to the pits of a certain Boogeyman’s lair seemed more appealing than being out 

_(alone)_

in the wide world. He had come to North as a last resort, in the hopes that the workshop might provide a solution to his troubles. Even if its inhabitants were amid a pre-Christmas bedlam. 

“Then you will excuse me,” said North as he set his ice plane down on the work table. “There is still much preparation to be done, and since Easter was, how you say… _katastrofa,_ this Christmas must go off without a Pitch.” 

“Did you just say—?”

“I’m not recalling saying Pitch. Now, I invite you here, not to be moping and whining, but to make yourself useful. So far, you have only been warming seat for me—which means is now frozen.” Tucking his chainsaw away below the table, North then positioned himself at its far end where a runway ramp was assembled. He held the mock toy up to the light, admired it for a moment, and said, "So, tell me Jack. What do you think? Is she ready for maiden voyage?"

Jack gave a noncommittal grunt in response, but leaned forward in his seat nonetheless. "Alright, let's see what she's got."

Like an overgrown child, the burly toymaker gave an excited chuckle in placing the delicate model atop the steep gradient. He flicked its propellor with a finger, and it whirred to life rearing to go.

"And _tri… Dva… Odin!"_

He released the little plane which raced down the runway, launched itself into the air…and dive-bombed kamikaze style straight into the lit fireplace.

"Ahh!" North's hands flew to his head in dismay. Jack snorted, making no effort to smother his laughter.

“Wow. Crashed _and_ burned.” 

North shouted what could only be some choice Russian as he rushed over to the hearth. "It did not fly? Why didn't it…" He gesticulated despairingly to his hours of meticulous work melting before his eyes. "Why don't you fly?!” The damp logs fizzled and hissed, mocking him. “Bah! Now we are behind schedule… More over-time for workers…less toys for children…" He scrubbed a hand over his face to pinch the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Wait.” His brow suddenly shot up. “CHERT VOS'MI!”

Jack leapt from his seat with a yelp to clutch his staff at the unexpected excitement. "Wait, _what?_ "

"Levitation spell! Enchantment for levitation. Is kaput. It must have worn off." North marched towards the door, ranting about his workers as he went. "I tell them to find recently treated ice block; they get from old stock. I tell them to knock; they barge in. I say one thing; they do other—bring ice block with you," he called to Jack as he disappeared out the door. Jack stared in bewilderment from the now-empty doorway to the sizeable slab of frozen water on the table. 

“I’m not carrying that,” he muttered to himself. Instead, he struck the slab with his staff, and it fragmented into particles and snowflakes that stormed after him as he raced out the door.

North led them halfway round the third level mezzanine. It encircled the Globe of Belief's mechanical pedestal, which kept the map of little lights ever-turning. Looking down into the void, the ground level workshop was in full operation as toys of every variety were made, wrapped and named, and Jack marvelled for a second at how seamlessly the yetis ran everything. They turned off into a corridor on their left, which followed a dingy, unkempt passage of the North Pole Jack was yet to explore. Although, seeing it now made him realise he hadn't been missing much. The occasional door they passed appeared locked, and the lamps fixed to the walls were covered in fuzzy layers of dust, illuminated by a yellowish light.

"North, what is this place?” Jack asked.

"South wing. Mostly used for storage."

Jack curled his lip in puzzlement. Storage for what? Aside from the odd dust-bunny, there was nothing there. So preoccupied was he in glancing around for anything noteworthy at all, that he walked right into North when they came to a halt before the closed double-doors at the corridor's end. He ricocheted back with a yelp, rubbing his nose, but the big man paid him no mind. Peeking round his shoulder, Jack could see there were no handles; only intricate, swirling, vine-like carvings that crept over the hard wood surface. There appeared nowhere to go but back the way they had come.

"What are we doing here?" Jack asked.

"We are here to fix levitation enchantment," North replied with a thoughtful frown to the impenetrable barrier. "Library has everything we need."

"Library...?" That didn't make any sense. North's library, as Jack had seen it, was located to the side of the Globe Room, adorning the walls surrounding his fireplace with hundreds of books to cozy affect. "But your library's upstairs," he said.

North sounded a hearty chuckle. "Nyet. This is…different library. What is in here must be kept under lock and key."

Bemused, Jack leant against the nearest window sill, and flicked a wrist at the flurry of snow and ice to keep it off the ground. North was taking his time, pushing and prodding different sections. But the Jack soon realised there was, in fact, a method to this madness. The doors had a sum of six squared dials he'd mistaken for decorative woodwork. Each was turned counter-clockwise by North in a particular order. First the middle left, then the bottom right; the middle right; the top left; the top right; and finally, the bottom left. When all were clicked into place, North stood back, and looked with satisfaction as the vine-like carvings began to move. To Jack's astonishment, they gradually converged and intertwined to form two large, twisted door handles. His trademark impish grin made an appearance for the first time that afternoon.

"Well, that was either a Riddler's wet dream or a locksmith's worst nightmare."

North tapped a finger to the side of his nose. "When neither can be trusted, both must be kept on their toes," he said.

Jack’s fasciation ceased when he felt something ticklish brush over the back of his hand. He looked down to find a spider creeping its way along his fingers to the pole of his staff. He cried out. With a violent shake of his entire arm, the eight-legged horror was flung off into the dark, though being rid of it didn't stop him from shuddering. 

"North, you’ve got spiders. Big spiders.”

"Eh. Is only bug," North shrugged as he turned a handle. "What is so bad about bug?"

Jack was about argue that they were creepy, and gross, and had no business crawling all over him like they paid rent, but that was all forgotten when North threw the double doors open. His cerulean eyes grew wide enough to resemble saucers when they saw what lay behind. A room emulating all the grandeur of a cathedral spread out before them. There were red, carpeted floors, numerous tables displaying strange glassware and apparatuses, and cushy armchairs that Jack was sure if he sunk into them he would never want to leave. Inviting reading nooks were created by shelves that wove in and out, which climbed skyward to meet the arctic sunlight streaming in from a dazzling glass ceiling. 

What was most impressive, however, were the books. Hundreds of books filled the space. And not just on shelves, tables, or in mountainous piles. They were everywhere. They were _flying_. Of their own accord, these books rearranged and organised themselves. Some were open with pages fluttering like leaves in the wind while some moved together in flocks. All Jack could liken it to was how Tooth's fairies swarmed in an organised chaos around Tooth Palace.

"Woah…"

“Still bored?” North asked with lips curling into a smile.

Jack shook his head. "No, I've just got this weird feeling that I stepped into Hogwarts. Or Narnia. No big deal." A raised brow from North had him defending himself. "What? I read.” 

“Of course, you do.” 

_Rude…_ Jack’s deadpanned regard said. But indeed, the library looked as though magic electrified its every atom; a stark contrast to the bleak-looking passage they'd taken in the first place. His brow furrowed at the thought. “I don't get it. Out there, it looks like it hasn't been used in who-knows-how-long, but in here…”

North shrugged. “Is true. Library is not used often. But I tell yetis not to clean outside for not drawing attention. You have never thought to look down here, no? That is why.” He began to walk further into the room. Jack trotted at a steady pace while ducking the flying books to keep up with the Cossack's lumbering gait. “These books contain most powerful spells this world has ever known," North continued. "It is us at the Pole who guard them. To make sure they do not fall into wrong hands. They were once belonging to Ombric Shalazar, the last of the great, powerful wizards. I was his apprentice in my younger years and he taught me everything I know. Now I keep books here, to keep safe, to help bring wonder to children of the world, and to keep away from Pitch."

"Pitch wants these books?" Jack glanced back to the shadowy hall from where they'd come, half expecting the Nightmare King to be lurking there with his predatory grin glinting from out of the dark.

"He did once. Maybe not so much now, but still…can never be too sure."

"Can he even use them?"

"Anyone can use. Anyone can learn sorcery.".

_Anyone?_ So, would that therefore mean that Jack himself could learn sorcery? Suddenly, a completely new world was forming in his mind's eye. One filled with endless snow days, homework that magically did itself, and laughter that never died. Best of all, it was a world where a solution to his boredom was always within reach. He desperately wanted to be a part of it.

"Can you teach me?” 

"What? Teach you? But you have ice and snow. Why do you want to learn? It is hard work, with many years of training," said North.

"I just want to learn one spell. Or two. Maybe something to make a pen write by itself…"

"Jack," North warned, "getting Jamie out of homework is not why you learn sorcery." The jig was up before it could even begin. The old man knew him too well, apparently. “You learn to put something back into world. To make it better place. Besides, I am too busy to teach right now. After Christmas. Maybe."

Jack fought back a scowl. It was always the same. Every single time he suggested anything to his friends it was 'sorry, not today,' or 'maybe next month.' Only next month came and went, yet nothing ever changed.

"In mean time," North continued, "you know what I am going to say."

"Yeah. Don't come in here, don't touch the books, and do not, under any circumstances, do anything remotely fun."

“This is serious, Jack. I would never tell you that your Centre is not important, but there is time and place for fun. Even for you. What do you think you teach Jamie if you try to get him or friends out of school work for—for snowball fights? You are Guardian now, and as Guardian you must take on responsibility."

Jack blinked, and felt his blood pressure rise with his exasperation. This sort of commentary he could expect from Bunny, but North? What other responsibility did he have? Encouraging fun and laughter _was_ his responsibility!

"One day, if you still want to learn, I will teach you," North promised, "but for now I tell you not to be dealing with spells because without proper training—years of training—consequences can be…bad."

They had come to a stop in the centre of the room. A few feet away stood a lectern, evidently where most incantations were read. Jack was about to ask just how bad a bit of experimentation could be, but the sidelong look he was given said North had good reason to be concerned. 

Jack breathed a long sigh. “So how are we going to find one spell out of all this?” One look up to the celling and his vision was obscured by a dizzying vortex of pages. And that wasn't even mentioning the books sitting peacefully on their shelves. Christmas was going to come and go before they ever found what they needed. North, however, was undeterred.

“We wait. Books' magic can sense there is problem; they know the spell to fix. The right one will come to us. We just need ice block.”

Jack started, having almost forgotten about the snowflakes drifting aimlessly around the space behind them. He summoned them over to the closest table, over which a small blizzard formed, then compacted. As if he was sculpting the very particles, the glassy ice block was reformed in an instant.

True to North's word, they hardly had to wait. Within seconds of preparing the ice, a book glided its way over and roosted upon the lectern's sloping top. However, Jack's interest in the art of sorcery had dwindled considerably in his sour mood. He retired to one of the various armchairs facing away while North, Cossack sorcerer extraordinaire, got to work. As he had first thought, the chairs were incredibly plush. They made the perfect comforter while he stewed in his musings.

North had specifically said he would never demean Jack’s centre...but he had. Without even realising it, the old man had insinuated that in trying to bring a bit of fun to the occasionally dreary lives of children—in the only way he knew how—Jack was not being as 'serious' as the other Guardians. He was not being ‘responsible’. And that had cut him deep. What he did was all he knew. He may not have had as much experience as the others, but he knew that a snow day or a simple game could brighten a child's face with joy just as much as any toy or dream. It was why he'd been made a Guardian in the first place…right? So, why did he have to be the problem when maybe—just maybe—the problem was _them_?

The Guardians took themselves and their jobs very seriously. In a way, that was good. It was as it should be. But they were also incredibly competitive. He saw it every time North and Bunny were left alone in the same room for too long. _'Christmas is more important than Easter,'_ the debate always started, and it would inevitably grow into a shouted argument between the Cossack and the Pooka that no one wanted to spectate. Moon forbid if there was eggnog involved. Tooth, who could barely hold a conversation for trying to stay in touch with her workers, was no better. With duties that ran around the clock, she was quick to point out how she rarely took a break, unlike Sandy who, though he worked just as frequently, got to sleep on the job. The little man in turn argued that creating dreams was the most complex and taxing task of all, therefore he was entitled to practically sleep his entire existence away. Then there was Pitch. For all his efforts to disparage them, he was no different. The Nightmare War began because he sought to grow the burgeoning influence of fear and darkness. All that set him apart was the gall to act upon such ambitions.

That, and the Boogeyman was a raging lunatic.

Yes…in his cynicism, Jack could conclude that every single one of these spirits needed to lighten up, so to speak. The world was serious enough as far as he was concerned, so the least they could all do was collectively pull themselves together for two seconds.

Something dropped with a thud into Jack's lap. One of the library's many books had taken up a heavy residence on his crossed legs. The tome had meandered over to him without his noticing. How strange. Jack appraised it with the vague sense that if he so much as moved it, he'd be sent flying back into the shelves. Yet inexplicably enticed to turn the cover, his fingers had barely brushed the leather binding when the book flipped itself open to a random page. Or so he initially thought. 

Perhaps it was not so random at all. 

Jack’s understanding of the Slavic dialect peculiar to Santoff Claussen was minimal at best, and his ability to speak it was even less so. But even though the script was written in another language entirely, Jack could see a solution staring him square in the face. The books could sense a problem, North had said. They also knew a spell to fix that problem.

Jack chanced a look at North from around the back of the chair. He was still muttering incoherently under his breath and had no idea what Jack held in his hands. Deeming the coast clear, he resumed studying the words. As he did so, his features were obscured by a deep frown. On the page, it read:

**Инвестиции в ваши эгоистичные способы**

**Вы все выбираете**

**Поэтому вместо этого вы пойдете некоторое время;**

**Миля в их туфлях**

Jack’s interpretation of it, however, left something to be desired.

"Investitsii…v vashi…" He sounded the foreign syllables out to the spell's end, and chuckled ruefully to himself when his short-lived dreams of becoming a sorcerer were dashed then and there. Little did he know he would later regret ever opening his mouth at all.

Gradually, like a drop in the temperature, it became apparent to the company of two that something had shifted in the atmosphere around them. As though the air itself was crackling with electricity. It disturbed North so much that he stuck his head up in the middle of incanting, and glanced with darting eyes about the room. A prickling that shuddered down Jack’s spine told him something was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

"Jack…"

He turned with wide eyes to face North and his foreboding growl. He hastily removed himself from the chair, and held a tell-tale volume open, wherefrom North could see exactly what he had tampered with. The room suddenly grew dark. An indescribable force both within and surrounding them fizzled and snapped in a way that was unmistakable, as though the natural balance of the world had been altered. North knew it at once, and by the look on his face, it had sent his stomach plummeting into his shoes.

“Jack. What have you done?”

— O —

Jack’s hand was in his hair, grasping at fistfuls of strands as the memories of his mistake rushed back to him, their detail the clarity of crystal. “I read from the book,” he murmured. “You showed me the library where you keep all your old spell books. You told me not to touch any of them, let alone read from them, but I still… I didn't even realise it would work, I mean you said it takes years of training."

"It takes years of training to get _righ_ t," North reiterated. "Whatever spell you read, it was obviously not supposed to mismatch abilities like this.”

The faces of the group fell as one. It was plain that each of Guardians were struggling not to attribute blame. Pitch made no effort to disguise his fury. But there was only a brief moment of silence before the consequences of Jack's actions came back to bite him in the rear.

"You WHAT?!" 

Bunny launched himself into a spear-tackle, but Jack darted just out of reach, and with that the chase was on. Jack ran for the thicket before Bunny tore after him. Cries and yelps soon issued from the depth of the surrounding trees. Pitch blatantly ignored the tomfoolery of those they belonged to. Instead, he folded his arms to drum his fingers against his biceps, and glowered at the remnants of their party.

"I don't care how it happened," he began softly, "nor do I want to know why you would ever let that boy near such potent magic, North, but I will say this: you had better find a way to fix it before I string each of you up by your entrails."

Tooth, North, and Sandy (having tottered back over to the group) gulped collectively, unsettled by just how lethal Pitch could look despite glimmering wings and twitching feathers. Though if anything, the latter served to make him appear even more unhinged. By that point, Bunny and Jack had returned, panting after exhausting their pettiness and nursing bumps and scrapes that would no doubt bruise before the day was out. Bunny had the added difficulty of hoisting up pants that were several sizes too big for him.

"You _can_ fix this, right?" Tooth asked North, submitting to her bad habit of wringing her hands whenever she got nervous. North merely shrugged with a dismissive wave of his hand (paw), easygoing no matter the circumstance.

"It can be remedied," he assured them all. "Every curse has counter-curse. All we do is go back to Pole, find same book, and zakoncheny! Back to normal in blink of eyes."

"It should be back in the library where we…uh, I…" Jack amended at a pointed look form North, "…left it, right?" He received a nod, but this revelation did nothing to mollify Pitch and his bristling temper.

"Your brain must have shrivelled in size for you to think I would willingly be lured to that deathtrap you call a realm.” And with that, Pitch turned on his heel and began to depart. "Enjoy the hike. I won't be joining you."

"You could stay," North called after him, "but, we do not know if spell will reach you here."

“It managed to pull us together from all reaches of the sodding planet!" Pitch countered, stopping only to spread his arms in an incredulous, wide arc. "I think I'll be just fine."

"Counter-curses are slightly different," North said, "more precise conditions are needed. You are not wanting to be this way forever, but by staying that is exactly the risk you take." He shrugged. "Is your choice, though. Is no skin off our noses either way."

At this valid point, Pitch came to a grinding halt and clamped his jaw shut with an audible click, knowing that the dental abuse would make Toothiana cringe—not that he cared. Every fibre of his being told him that to blindly follow his enemies of more years than could be counted was a venture that could only have him meet a grizzly end (and that was the best-case scenario). But at the same time, the thought of spending even another minute trapped in such a horrific bodysuit, with a ridiculously impractical train of show plumage to boot, almost compelled him to lead the expedition himself.

“‘Come into my web,' said the spider to the fly…’" he muttered before reluctantly turning to face them. "Fine! Have it your way. But if any of you try anything, so help me—"

"Until we figure this out, we are in state of truce. Agree?" North proposed as the de facto leader. The rest of the group exchanged a mixture of dubious and sullen glances, their distrust of each other evident. But though no one spoke for it, no one spoke against the arrangement either, and so both parties came to a silent agreement.

"So that's it then? We just go back to the North Pole?" Tooth asked. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news but…we don't exactly have any way to get there."

North's self-assured demeanour fell instantly. Without proper control over their powers and neither snow globes, nor a sleigh to hitch a ride on, they were as good as stranded.

Tooth continued, "I mean, unless Pitch, or I, or even Bunny somehow carried—"

"Not in a million years," Pitch snapped.

"Then I don't see how we're getting out of here," Tooth said, crossing her arms. "I can't call on any of my fairies…we don't even know where we are!"

"I know where we are," Jack said. "We're just outside Burgess. My lake's just over there." He pointed through the trees. "Found it while Bunny was giving me a noogie."

"And how does that help us get back to the _North Pole_ , Frost?” Pitch asked through gritted teeth and wearing patience.

“It doesn’t help us. But that’s not the point,” Jack said. He cast his gaze toward the sun setting in the west, and the township settling into the coming evening below. “I think I know someone who can."


	4. The Lesser of Two Evils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, a new threat makes itself known in the seediest of the spiriting realms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I can't take credit for the works of William Joyce or Dreamworks, but I will take due credit for the many OCs in this chapter - sans one. Patrick actually belongs to SumiSprite, and I can't thank her enough for letting me borrow this wonderful ruff-nut (and his bar).
> 
> Additional notes on certain OCs can be found in the footnotes of this chapter.

Most nights passed without notable disruption to The Rusty Pingin’s flow of patrons. Located several nondescript miles south of the Irish border, on the edge of a sleepy country town, the tavern had an impeccable reputation for hospitable service, and was one of the few places an immortal could be sure to acquire a drink. Coincidentally, it was also a snake-hole; where the underbelly of the spiriting world laid bare its undesirables. Of course, there were gatekeepers present; the mediators of secrecy and extortion. None were more respected (or feared) than the owner of the establishment in question. 

Patrick manned The Rusty Pingin like the captain of a ship. Sporting a dapper green vest over a white shirt, the ensemble did nothing to detract from the formidable presence his burly, broad frame imposed over the counter. It was glaringly obvious he took no prisoners when he dealt with the thugs that often passed through. And if they couldn’t tell by the jagged scar over his left eye, one look at the emerald-encrusted, gold-plated brass knocks on full display at his belt gave more than a hint to his brutality. 

Nothing went unnoticed by the roguishly rugged leprechaun. Despite a hazy blanket of magical vapour — designed to conceal the more exclusive divisions of his ground floor parlour — from the circular bar beneath an open gallery, Patrick’s poison green eyes surveyed his domain with sharp precision.

Beneath shelves that ran the perimeter of the parlour, laden with trophies and relics to boast of pub brawls won, several mahogany booths of wine-red upholstery were currently occupied. Harlequin, seated in one, was on his fourth round. Death would soon be joined by his associate Horsemen (a disquieting prospect when the barman always found himself most leery of Pestilence). Patrick could even make out silhouettes of his more secretive guests in the upper tiers of the gallery. Yet, he ensured he was not privy to the shady dealings taking place therein. For ultimately, the Spirit of Prosperity only involved himself in the affairs of his patrons when he saw fit, and kept his nose down otherwise for plausible deniability. Furthermore, he was a gracious host, and while establishing just _who_ owned the polished, cedar wood tables his guests sat at was by no means beneath him, his bars were almost always accommodating to those who wished to visit. Above all else, he provided them privacy upon request. 

His critical gaze panned over to the front door as it swung open with a slight creak. The carved wooden panel admitted a vixen – a siren, more precisely – that Patrick knew all too well. All hooded eyes and sultry, dark lips, she was a kaleidoscope of red tones, clad in daring skirts and a waist-cinching bodice. Armed with her bow and a quiver of arrows, heads turned momentarily to catch a wary glance of the gleaming weaponry, before they bowed back into matters of delicate business. Patrick was the only one who kept his impassive gaze on her, and judging by her haggard appearance, he knew exactly what was to come.

"Your strongest whiskey," she ordered, her demeanour flat and resigned as she took up her usual place at the counter. "And don't skimp; I know where you keep the good stuff."

"Why thank you, Valentina, I'm doin' quite well this evenin'. How nice of you to ask," Patrick said in mock-reply as he pulled a tumbler out from beneath the counter. She shot his smirk a withering look edged with a grimace.

"Sorry," she grumbled, "rough day."

"I can see that. On the rocks?" he asked.

"Neat," she said, "and on second thought, make it a double."

Patrick quirked a brow, but went ahead with the request. He pulled a crystal decanter from the shelf behind him and poured what little was left of its contents into Valentina's glass. "Be soundin' more like a shite week than a rough day," he noted.

Valentina's hair tumbled about in a mass of auburn curls as she sank her forehead into her arms. "You could say that," came her muffled reply. "There were forty-six thousand, eight hundred and twenty-three divorces in the past five days alone."

Upon hearing this, Patrick cringed. The Spirit of Desire had been a regular at The Rusty Pingin for a long time. Long enough for him to know that no matter how many arrows she sent out with the intent of encouraging true love, the happy couple didn't always stay happy for long. As such, the pain of so many broken hearts left her tired and drained…and usually placed him in the dual-purpose role of bartender and therapist.

"Chin up, Val," he said, pushing the glass towards her. "I said it once, I'll say it again; it ain't your fault. Old Cupid asks too much of you, that's all." When she didn't budge, the leprechaun narrowed his eyes. "No seriously, up with you. I just had this polished, I won't have you markin' it up. And what have I told you about puttin' that bow on the counter?"

Righting herself, Valentina rolled her eyes and took an unabashed swig of her drink. She then removed the mentioned weapon and propped it up against her stool.

Pushing his sleeves up to reveal solid, scarred arms, and the beginnings of a Celtic tattoo just above the elbow, Patrick leaned one forearm against the counter-top, and placed a hand to his hip. He met Valentina at eye-level. "So, how will the lass be payin' this fine evenin'?" he asked.

With liquor flooding her veins in a warm rush, the siren permitted the appearance of her trademark simper. "I was thinking," she purred, running a finger around the rim of her glass, "isn't it customary to buy the prettiest person a drink?"

"If it was, you'd be shoutin' me the next pint," he deadpanned, to which she openly scoffed. "C'mon, Val, I'm tryin' to turn a profit here. Can't flirt your way out of a double, and I ain't trading me livelihood for one of those accursed arrows, neither."

Valentina leaned back in her seat with a smirk, having known full well how he would take to her conniving advances. Old habits die hard though; and Patrick often made the funniest faces when she made more lewd comments. "Worth a shot," she said with a shrug.

"Will it be cash then?"

"Actually…" Valentina frowned for a moment, seemingly thinking. "I may have something of far more value to you than money. If you're willing to hear me out, that is."

It would come as no surprise to most that Patrick was suddenly more than interested in what Valentina was alluding to. The leprechaun was renowned for his intel of the spiriting underground's inner workings. He could divulge his share of highly valuable blackmail — for the right price, to the right person — but being privy to such information meant he usually had the help of a mole or two. Valentina just so happened to be one of his most reliable sources.

Not averse to drinking on the job, Patrick poured himself a lager and dropped his voice. "I'm listenin'," he said.

"Have you heard about the Guardians?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

Sarcasm dripped from each syllable of Patrick's reply. "Can't say I have. Remind me who they would be again?"

"I know you don't want to hear it, but trust me. I think you might be interested in this," she insisted.

The Guardians of Childhood were brought up frequently by purveyors looking to profit from the so-called 'dirt' they'd acquired, and Patrick had learned to expect little from them in the way of substance, or even accuracy. However, if there was one thing he knew about Valentina, it was that he could trust her to deliver more than the simplistic, malicious gossip most others tried to sell him about the Man in the Moon's favoured charges.

"Go on then," he permitted before tipping back his glass.

"Well, I heard from Lady White Snake, who heard from Mother Goose, who heard from Will-o-the-Wisp, who heard from the Seasonal Sprites, that Jack Frost is not himself," she reported with a devious smile. "And neither are the other Guardians."

"Not themselves…" Patrick repeated slowly.

"By the sounds of it, something went terribly wrong and it caused them to end up on the edge of that college town near Michigan. According to the sprites, they looked completely bizarre. Like their Centres — or physical attributes, at least — had been spliced. And, to make things even more fascinating, apparently Pitch Black has been caught up in all this as well."

"Interesting, but have you tracked the source?"

"Naturally." Valentina placed her chin in a propped-up hand. "I managed to locate the Seasonal Sprites and get it directly from them. It's all verified. In fact, bets are being placed as we speak to see which of them is going to throw the first punch."

"I'd put me dime on that golden turd with the nasty right hook," the leprechaun concluded while mirthfully contemplating his lager. "Bastard nearly took me pint and me eye out in one swing back in '83. Black won't be standin' a chance." He looked to her suddenly. "Only question is, how did it happen?"

"That's the thing," Valentina continued, gradually becoming more excited. "Summer seems to think Jack admitted to using a spell book when he had no idea how to pronounce the incantation. Apparently, she was the first to find them, and she's convinced that she might have woken them up — probably because she's incapable of keeping her mouth shut. Anyway, she was there the whole time and heard him confess. You know, I always thought North was some sort of bibliophile, but spell books are difficult to come by these days! I bet he has _loads_ more somewhere up-"

"Put a cork in it, lass," Patrick hissed when she grew too obnoxious to be inconspicuous. "You know I get all sorts in here…" At her sour glance, he riled to defend himself. "Don't gimme that sneer. Business is business."

"Well, you asked!" she retorted in a sharp whisper, as if to compensate for her earlier carelessness. "Besides, I could be wr-AH!" Valentina unexpectedly screeched and swatted at her drink, sending it flying off the counter. It tumbled to the ground, shattering in a spectacular bomb of broken glass and whiskey. Several leering faces trained their sights on the two while Patrick shot her a steely glare.

" _What_ are you doin' to me bar?" he demanded.

"Nothing." Valentina shrugged, once again the picture of nonchalance. "I thought I saw a cockroach or something on my glass."

"Christ, Val…" Patrick scrubbed a hand down his face. "That's the second one this week."

She maintained her flat expression. "Well, maybe if this place wasn't such a dive…"

"That's it! You're cut off," he snapped. A friend only aiming to get a rise out him she may have been, but Patrick would have no one — _no one_ — speaking ill of the tavern he worked hard to maintain and keep somewhat respectable. If she wanted to have a go him, she could take her criticisms and shove them right up her-

Both felt their hackles rise as the front door swung open again. Normally, this would not get any more than a fleeting glance from Patrick, but the energy this new entity brought in was enough to quiet the near-constant murmuring of voices. Several bar patrons either huddled into their seats or scowled over their shoulders when they recognised the hulking mass looming over the threshold. They were right to feel intimidated.

Long, keratinous horns protruded from a wild and matted mane of hair. Razor sharp, yellowing claws gripped a heavy, barbed iron club, which was carelessly dragged across the floor. A humanoid frame towered over them all, warped by centuries of starvation, and the wispy tendrils of his ghostly form gave them a good idea of just how weak he was.

But no sane soul would ever underestimate such a demonic entity.

For this grotesque creature of fading pinkish, ruddy flesh was an Oni. A ruthless and vindictive being capable of foul deeds that were frowned upon by anyone with a conscience. Not even Patrick would risk trivialising his unforeseen arrival, and he aptly made no effort to hide his gilded knuckles. Slipping them onto his fingers, he leaned further over the bar top. His shoulders were squared, his jaw was set — the leprechaun appeared nothing short of a snarling hound poised to protect his turf. With their petty squabble forgiven and forgotten, he made sure his hands were close enough to grab the tense Valentina if this unwelcome visitor tried anything.

 _Most_ nights passed uneventfully in the Rusty Pingin tavern.

This was clearly not going to be one of them.

The Spirit of Desire shuddered as the Oni approached. The ogre-like beast stopped just behind her back, but Valentina did not dare turn and meet the predatory crimson stare boring into the back of her skull. She cringed as she caught a whiff of his fetid breath ghosting over her shoulders. The stench made her ill, but it paled in comparison to the putrid and power-hungry desires she sensed rolling off the half-starved demon.

"In case yer lost," Patrick started sharply, "dumpsters are out back."

The cracked lips of the Oni's wide mouth spread in a skin-crawling sneer. "That's no way to greet a customer," he remarked, his raspy voice sounding as though he'd gargled scrap-metal. Much to their dismay he took up a seat, which groaned under his weight. Valentina only wished he had not done so in such close proximity. Or at all.

"What do you want?" she demanded through gritted teeth.

"What anyone else here wants." The Oni's eyes veered over to Patrick. "I am but a weary traveller seeking your generous hospitality…and I would like to experience it without the nagging of your infernal, succubus wench."

Incensed, the siren's cheeks flushed and she visibly shook with rage. "Why you slimy…!" she snarled. Valentina made to stand, but the quick-thinking Patrick wasn't game to find out what irrational course of action she had in mind. He restrained her by a forearm, yet kept his eyes trained on the Oni as they flashed an incandescent shade of sulphuric yellow.

"See, thing about that is, I don't want you here," he said, his voice dangerously even. "And if I don't want you here, I ain't goin' to serve you. I know what thugs like you do. I expect a certain standard of my patrons and you're draggin' it down. So, I suggest you hit the road before I turf you out myself."

"Ah." The Oni smiled his Cheshire grin and said mildly, "If that's the case, I believe it is _you_ who belongs in the mud, half-blood scum."

Valentina could not have taken up her weapon faster. In a flash, she had broken out of Patrick's iron hold to aim an arrow — which was stronger than titanium and just as lethal — directly at the Oni's jugular. She knew Patrick, being of slightly dubious lineage, would have tried to ignore the deplorable insult, but she would not stand to let it go unanswered. Her face was contorted into a vicious snarl.

"Say that again," she spat.

Patrick didn't even think to berate her for drawing her weapon indoors, and instead bit back a triumphant grin at the Oni's slight disarmament. "You ever felt the keen sting of love?" he asked the demon. "'Cause it's rarely pleasant, I assure you."

"I've not had the pleasure," the Oni said. He remained unfazed, despite staring down what was essentially the barrel of a loaded gun. His cunning gaze narrowed to a leer aimed at his subjugator. "I only wonder…what would Cupid think of his arrows being defiled by harmful intent?"

"If my father were here, he would do you in himself," Valentina said, pulling the string tighter still. "Besides, as long as they're in my hands, they belong to me."

The Oni gave little more than a derisive sneer before he effortlessly snatched the arrow out of her possession and proceeded to snap it like a twig. A shower of sparks fizzled from the fracture and Patrick knew, by the look on her face, that Valentina had felt a little something inside herself also break.

"Not anymore," the Oni said.

"I've heard enough," Patrick snapped. He shoved back the sleeves of his shirt even further and balled up his fists. "Get out, or eviction comes with a complimentary facial rearrangement."

Rather than fight him on the matter, the Oni held up gnarled hands with odd numbers of fingers in surrender. Valentina recoiled when their claws came far too close for her liking.

"No need," he said, "I can tell when I'm not wanted. Such a shame, I thought perhaps a place like this might have done well to serve up a bite to eat. I must say I'm rather... _hungry_."

And with that, the Oni rose from his seat, collected his club, and stalked out the door, making sure to leave the floorboards gouged and scraped in his wake. The tavern was silent as the patron spirits attempted to process what the fiend had just uttered. Half were unsure if they had heard him correctly. The rest did not want to believe they had.

"Pat…" Valentina's wide, brown eyes met his now emerald ones. She could see he appeared greener than usual. Stoic resolve deflated, Patrick slowly shook his head.

"I've got a bad feelin' about this."

— O —

Being of rather gargantuan size, the Oni was more than relieved to be free of confined spaces, and he relished the open air of a moonless night. Straightening hunched shoulders, he was adamant in resisting his body's urge to lean against his club like a cripple with a cane — though the thought was tempting. His stamina and strength were, admittedly, in critically low supply, and showing off with the harlot's arrow had done him more harm than good. But it had been worth it to watch them all fester in fear. Besides, simply keeping ahold of his club would be enough for him to maintain his energy. For the time being. He had long ago fashioned the barbaric weapon into a conduit for the life source that fuelled him. It had served him well over the centuries, but his reserves had inevitably been depleted and his power was waning like the infernal moon above.

He was so very weak.

But he wouldn't have to be for much longer.

He would now continue his arduous tour, scouting Europe and spying on the children instrumental to his plans. He was most drawn to the naughty; the insolent and bratty; the troublemakers. Though at this stage, he found almost any child would do. He was content to be indiscriminate. When finished taking stock in this continent, he would move on the Americas.

His interlude of riling the dimwitted masses within the oafish bartender's tavern had been but a mere indulgence. To remind himself and others of the _chaos_ he had once wrought on the world. How it was only a fraction of what was to come. He suspected word would soon reach the Guardians of his movements, as unconfirmed rumours of their misfortune had reached him. He had taken a calculated risk in making a move so early, but this was one opportunity not to be passed. By the time the Guardians came to face him, he would be prepared to seize victory in his grasp — and he would ensure he had the upper hand.

The Oni's dark thoughts were interrupted by a snickering group of malformed, almost animalistic figures, barely illuminated by the Rusty Pingin's dim exterior lights. His eyes narrowed, and with impeccable vision, he assessed an unimpressive, rag-tag gang of spirits. There were seven in total, loitering outside the tavern in the cobbled street. They appeared almost as languished as himself, wasting away to almost nothing. But not quite. Indeed, some appeared stronger, healthier than others. Certainly, they were in better shape than himself. Still, it was plain the Oni was looking at the dregs of spiriting society. Thinking nothing of them, he began his prowl down the street.

Until one of the blithering simpletons decided to openly mock him.

"Couldn't even hold his ground against a _leprechaun_ ," he heard from behind his back. "And a _halfling mutt_ at that. My, how the mighty have fallen."

The Oni paused. A growl built deep in his throat as he turned to snarl at them all, yet they had the audacity to dissolve into titters and jeers. He marched over to the band of hecklers with thundering footfalls, and without warning, he swung at the prideful, horse-faced offender. The blunt force of his club sent the pathetic spirit sailing down the length of the street to meet the ground with a dull thud. The rest immediately hushed and shrunk back into a wall as he towered over them.

"Who's next?" the Oni growled.

"Who said anyone must be next?" asked a slimy-skinned, toad-like entity. "No need to waste your energy bludgeoning in our heads. We don't have as much hot air in them as Orgill.

"Keep it up and a bludgeoning will be the least of your concerns," said the Oni, his threat far from empty. "Who are you?"

"Forgive us. We are the Spirits of Sin — the deadly kind," said another, his voice of a thick and oily quality. "They call me Schloemer." This brute was masked by shadow, but the Oni could make out what appeared to be a hog's head, complete with gnarled tusks and presumably flecks of food around his mouth. He was built like a tank with a generous gut, though he was still dwarfed by the Oni in comparison.

"Sin of Gluttony," he inferred from the evidence before him. He was by no means impressed, however he was beginning to wonder if this this irksome encounter could somehow benefit him. He then said without preamble, "You would have heard the rumours surrounding the Guardians, I presume?"

"You presume correctly."

His head veered round to face the ghostly creature that had spoken to him, surrounded by an eerily blueish aura. Standing on steel-hoofed hind legs, this spirit appeared to resemble a goat, with tufty, grey hair framing a harshly pointed face. Beady, black eyes appraised him from beneath the stumpy horns that grew from her forehead. Yet, what was most curious was that she appeared to be shackled by the ankle to a cinderblock.

"And you would be?"

"Hargerie. Sin of Sloth and all the apathy it inspires," she drawled.

The Oni hummed contemptuous interest. "Really. Tell me, Hargerie, what do you know of these whispers?" the Oni demanded.

"Oh, they're true. Verified in full, so I hear," said Schloemer. "The Guardians are effectively powerless to oppose anyone who might challenge them."

The Oni narrowed his eyes, assessing the Spirits of Sin again, though this time he was careful to evaluate each of them individually. The gears in his head started to turn, and his once dubious plans began to evolve into something darker. Something that called for these delinquents' specialised skills.

"Let's suppose I intended to do exactly that," the Oni began. "My final stops will be North and South America before I plan to stage my attack. It's a big task to evaluate two continents in my state. A task I'm beginning to doubt I can take on myself. I would like to make you an offer."

"We're listening," said the toad-faced runt.

"Not you," the Oni snapped, "My offer only extends to you…" he pointed to Schloemer, "and you…" he did the same to Hargerie. "You both have an influence that would be of invaluable assistance. The rest of you are nothing but dead weight."

Hargerie folded her arms and took a perch upon the cinderblock. "What's in it for us?" she asked.

"Free influence over any all children you wish to corrupt," the Oni said with a shrug. "But only if you work with me to bring down the Guardians once and for all."

Schloemer and Hargerie glanced at each other, ignoring the plain jealousy of their brethren. To them, it almost sounded like an offer too good to be true, and for a moment it looked as though they would flatly refuse. However, they each broke into simultaneous, malicious grins.

"We have agreed," said Schloemer, "and we will help you in this plot against the Guardians. But remember, we always collect what is owed to us."

"And I always ensure I finish what I start," Oni replied.

"Then it's settled," said Hargerie, hoisting up the cinderblock's chain over her shoulder with surprising ease. "We leave immediately."

"Ah, but first, dear sister," said Schloemer, giving the Oni a sidelong look, "might I suggest we make a brief detour?"

— O —

The murmurings among the patrons of the Rusty Pingin had increased tenfold in the minutes that followed the Oni's unprecedented arrival and subsequent departure. Patrick stood braced against the bar, his eyes flickering subtly as he tried to keep his racing thoughts in check. Suddenly, with a frustrated grunt, he pounded a fist onto the counter-top, making Valentina jump in her already shaken state. He worked his jaw for a few moments before he met her questioning gaze, but instead of enlightening her, he proceeded to address the rest of the tavern in full.

"Alright, everybody out!"

Several heads swivelled to face their host, their expressions blank and stunned. When no one moved, Patrick pinned them all with a glare.

"Are ye thick or deaf? I said everyone — _now_. Bar's closed. Next person to make me repeat myself will be personally escorted."

With no one particularly eager to experience the leprechaun's brand of chivalry, his customers filed out the door. Though some still retained the nerve to throw him inconvenienced scowls on their way out.

"Right. Not that this hasn't been fun, but…" Rather than finish her sentence, Valentina could only shrug before she collected her bow. She bid Patrick farewell and went to follow the stragglers of the dissipating crowd, but she had barely taken more than five steps before he deftly jumped the bar, ran to grasp her by the shoulders, and wheeled her back around.

"Not so fast. I didn't mean you," he said, "I don't want you leavin' just yet."

She raised a skeptical brow. "Oh, so now you want to be a 'gentleman'? May I remind you that I can take care of myself?"

"Trust me, I know," Patrick said, mildly amused. He deposited her by the counter while he went back behind the bar to close everything down. "What I mean is I need yer help."

With a hand on a jutted-out hip, she smirked dryly at him. "That's never a good sign…"

"If the Oni's been travelling," Patrick continued, going to flick off the overhead lights and lock up the store room, "it means he'll be lookin' to stir up trouble. Which is puttin' it lightly at best."

"So, what are you thinking?" she asked, passing over to him the stack of dirty schooners clouded with residual beer that had piled up on the counter. He gave pause as he took them.

"I'm thinking you and me are going to try and track down those Guardians," he said.

Valentina groaned. "What? _Why?_ Why do _we_ have to be the ones to break it to them? Why do we have to get involved at all?

"'Cause they exist in their own bleedin' vacuum, don't they?" Patrick reminded her, stashing the glasses in an empty wash tub for later. "Five quid says they've heard nothin'. I know for a fact The Man in the Moon's only ever worried himself over Pitch Black, and I'd stake me money on it that he's not realised there might be somethin' worse out there than the Boogeyman. They ain't goin' to see this one coming. Especially if what you said about 'em is true."

"Pat, I've already lost one arrow tonight, I don't want to risk losing any more," Valentina said, her apprehension evident.

"Well, it's a risk yer just goin' to have to take, 'cause yer the one who knows where they were last," he replied. With everything in relative order, he exited though the counter's hinged panel and straightened up his vest as he went. "I don't like the Guardians any more than you do, but it ain't about them. It's about those poor kids who've got no clue what's in store for 'em. I know you've got a moral compass in there somewhere, Val. Find it, and let's get going."

With that, he retrieved his brass knocks from his pocket, slipped them onto his fingers once more, and made his way over to the door, only to glance back when he realised Valentina was yet to follow. Her face bore a conflicted frown as she combed back frazzled curls. Patrick breathed a sigh and backtracked until he was in front of her.

"S'not about the arrows, is it," he stated, rather than asked.

"It is, but I guess they're not everything," Valentina admitted. Her hands balled into white-knuckled fists, and for a moment, her lips pressed together in an angry line. "He…that _thing_ said we were—"

"Oi," he cut her off sharply. "Are ye really listenin' to that feckin' gobshite right now? If ye are I'll be forced to knock some sense into ye—and don't think I'm talking shite, 'cause I wouldn't be arsed to say so otherwise."

At his choice use of jargon, Valentina cracked a begrudging smile, like he had known she would. Slipping into a more pronounced version of his rough, Irish brogue always seemed to amuse her, so it was a sure way to get her back into fighting form. His expression softened just a little as he caught her eye.

"Don't let him of all eejits be the first you pay mind to," he said, "alright?"

Her smile broadened and she nodded. "Alright."

"Just think," he added, "if we find the Guardians, we're already gettin' revenge on the devil."

"And helping those kids…" She let out a sharp breath. "I hate it when you're right."

He lifted a brow. "Is that a yes?"

"Yes. But!" She wagged a finger up in his face. "You owe me for this. Big time."

Undeterred, Patrick chuckled as she turned to lead the way, rather impressed by his own powers of persuasion. He followed and flicked off the master power switch by the door.

"Add it to the list," he called after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> **  
> _Valentina:_  
>  If you were to refer to Valentina as Cupid, you would be mistaken. She is, in fact, the daughter of Cupid and Psyche, born Volupitas. She goes by her middle name, Valentina, or Val for short, because of the constant overshadowing she feels from her parents, and the epic tale of their love is something she would prefer to distance herself from. The pressure of being their legacy is nothing short of immense.
> 
> Valentina wants to become a formidable spirit in her own right, hence the reimagining of her image. However, her father has since retired from the line of duty, and has bestowed upon her his bow and arrow, intending that she continue his work while he takes a break from matchmaking. The only problem is, Valentina's true Centre is desire, not love. So while she tries to match true love to the best of her ability, she's constantly distracted by the pull of physical attraction rather than true compatibility - and she may or may not be responsible for the rampant hook-up culture our modern day society exhibits as a result. It's a constant source of conflict and makes her feel horrible when at least 30% of marriages end up in divorce. But she's working on it.
> 
> While comfortable flirting her way through most situations, she is very protective of her own heart and hasn't found anyone she truly wants to share it with. Yet. That being said she will wear it on her sleeve without a thought and speak from it, unabashed.  
>  **  
> **  
>  _Patrick:_  
>  This is Sumi-Sprite's OC, so I'm afraid I can't comment on him in as much depth, other than he has been an absolute joy to write and take some creative liberty with. However, I can direct anyone who wants to know more about him to her profile. There are an abundance of brilliant stories mentioning him and many other fantastic characters, so if you haven't read her work, remedy that oversight immediately.  
>  **  
> **  
>  _The Oni:_  
>  My Oni is based on an ogre-like creature of Japanese folklore, and while I can't give away his backstory just yet, if you search up this asshole you'll get a pretty good idea of what he's planning. Sort of. Happy hunting.  
>  **  
> **  
>  _The Spirits of Sin:_  
>  Again, I can't give much away. I can say that the seven spirits are indeed siblings, and terrible ones at that. Hargerie and Schloemer will be vital to the plot and we will be hearing from them again, the others... not so much. They are all based on the symbolic colours and beasts each Sin is represented by.
> 
> Additional note; Orgill is supposed to be the Sin of Pride - and not knowing when to keep his mouth shut.


	5. When the 'Rainy Day' Arrives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, things can't possibly get any worse...right?

When night fell upon Burgess, the Guardians and Pitch made their move. Onto Main Street and Woon, past apartment blocks and diners, they trekked across town, hoping to reach the one boy who could help solve their problems; again.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Tooth asked through a stifled yawn. Unused to being grounded, her feet dragged as she plodded along and left a trail of glittering dust in her wake.

"Positive," Jack called back to her. "It's the same way we got to the town centre last time, just, you know…" he shot her a lopsided grin, "…backwards. So much for that big ol' memory of yours, huh?"

"Can you blame me if I don't remember? We were in a battle for our lives," she reminded him, and startled when a fat drop of water plopped on her head. She shot the offending air-conditioning unit a tired scowl as they passed beneath.

Jack deftly guided the group onward, at home amongst the pedestrians of the unremarkable town. His colleagues, however, were not so at ease. When they each did grace Burgess with their presences, they were usually caught in a whirlwind of purpose. Away from that storm – and the inherent instincts that told them where to be and when – their collective sense of direction was naught. Moreover, being the embodiment of fantasies (somewhat twisted), they positively gleamed against a backdrop so very ordinary on its surface. Not even the shopfronts crammed with novelty autumnal displays of carved Halloween pumpkins and cottony cobwebs could compare.

But the Guardians didn't just look out of place; they _were_ out of place. Meandering through the human world was something rarely done by any spirit, and having to dodge the occasional passers-by – all adult mortals who walked briskly against the cold, none the wiser to their existence – did not help tensions. Whatever Pitch felt on the matter remained hidden behind a stony expression.

"How's the kid supposed to help us again?" Bunny asked, awkwardly trying to manoeuvre his gangly legs. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not gonna screw my nose up at belief, but it can only take you so far, mate."

The bearded Sandy tapped Jack on an arm and nodded his agreement. He then pointed in the general direction of their destination, followed by a gesture to the new Dreamweaver he was tugging along by a wrist. She was beginning to doze off for the fourth time.

"I know, he's probably asleep," said Jack, "but Jamie is our only shot of getting back. I gave him three snow-globes after Easter and with any luck, he should still have them. If we're in trouble - and I'd say we are - he won't mind being woken up just this once."

"What?" North's ears physically perked up. He bounded along the sidewalk, surprisingly agile, and met Jack at the head of the group. There was a reprimand in his gaze. "You gave him snow-globes without telling me?" he asked.

Jack gave a helpless shrug. "Kind of?"

He was met with exasperated groans from all (sans an impassive Pitch), causing Tooth to startle awake.

"I meant to tell you afterward, but I forgot," Jack explained. "We hadn't caught all the Nightmares at that point and the kid has a knack for getting into weird adventures. I just gave them to him thinking that if he ever ran into trouble, he'd be able to escape. Or find us. And he's a good kid; he's smart. He wouldn't just throw them away for nothing."

North ran a heavy paw over his ears, flattening them to his head. "I understand why you did this, and you are good to be thoughtful. But Jack, sometimes you forget to _think_."

_~Poor Jack… You never learn.~_

Jack's breath caught in his chest. He glanced around, unsure whether someone else had spoken, or if…

_~You do your best. Give all you can.~_

_~Try, and try, and try...~_

_~And what does it get you?~_

_~Nothing but grief!~_

_~Poor little frostling.~_

"Yeah, you can't go 'round giving kids the means to access our world," said Bunny, wrenching Jack back into the present. "I mean what if someone else found them? Crikey, what if _Sophie_ got a hold of one again?" Bunny's eyes widened in horror, as if imagining all the trouble the little blonde might get into unsupervised. Or the sheer havoc she would wreak if she found her way back to the Warren. "If you give out those snow-globes to the ankle-biters, it's open slather. Which isn't good."

_~Not good at all.~_

"Especially since we might not be there when they decide to go for a wander."

"Bunny…"

_~It would be all YOUR fault!~_

"You might not have a realm to run, but the rest of us do."

"Bunny…!"

_~ After all, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions…~_

"And we can't have another Easter go to the dogs like last time."

Jack's calm demeanour finally cracked.

"Can't you just thank me later when we're back at the North Pole and back to normal?!" he snapped at them all.

The Guardians came to a dead stop on the sidewalk. Even Pitch's interest perked slightly. The adrenaline of lashing out surged through Jack as his pulse drummed in his ears. He stared them down, his nostrils flaring like those of a seething bull, but he faltered when they took tentative steps back. Something flickered in his peripheral vision.

In the window of Hanenberger's Hamburgers, silvery eyes alight with unfamiliar contempt glared and _glowed_ beneath the graphic shadows cast by a gaunt, angular face. Ashen lips were pulled back in a snarl over teeth that glinted with more than a hint of malice. And where the shade stood, the shadows converged, surging to its aid, making its figure appear larger, threatening…

Frightening.

It was him. His reflection. A feral incarnation of himself. It almost seemed to be jeering at him.

Admittedly, Jack hadn't given his appearance a thought, not since they'd woken. He had barely even registered the cloak draped over his shoulders, though he could have sworn the transcendent material was starting to press upon him with the stifling weight of lead. But the one question he might have thought to ask himself in that moment was already answered; he had changed, and there was a chance it was not for the better.

Jack forced his reflection to relax the ugly expression it had mustered with worrying ease. All the while he was growing acutely aware of something.

Something at once foreign and familiar.

Something that almost sent a tingle down his spine.

Something that, he realised with a pang, had to be the potent fears of his companions.

Jack frowned. What used to be only snippets of niggling concerns and unease he'd ignorantly dismissed as white noise had now become a distinct nervous chatter – and he could hear every word.

_**Oh, boy…Frostbite's cracked it – Library was bad idea. Very bad idea – Jack? What just happened? That's not like him. –This infernal carnival of curiosities just gets better, doesn't it? – How long before he turns into a madman like Pitch?** _

Jack's sights locked on the true Nightmare King, whose outward expression conveyed little more than bland curiosity. Was this what the spirit of fear always heard – always _knew?_ This incessant, relentless, burbling stream of consciousness in which his own thoughts could easily drown?

It was unnervingly pleasant.

"Jack, are you okay?"

He jolted at Tooth's question, and met her concerned expression with a strained smile.

"Yeah. Fine. I'm fine," he said.

"Because you don't look so–"

"Tooth. I'm okay. Promise," he insisted.

The woman in gold was by no means convinced, but Jack drew a steely breath anyway and turned to keep walking. A chill of foreboding stopped him. In less than a second, an immediate sense of danger overtook everything. It muffled the panicked warnings of his colleagues and told him to disappear.

So, that's exactly what he did.

The Guardians and Pitch watched in speechless awe as Jack vanished out of the path of an oblivious, coat-clad woman, into a shadow at his feet. He reappeared a few steps out of harm's way, shocked rigid by the sensation of traversing that dark, invisible plane that was more fluid than running ink. The remaining five spirits were quickly reminded of the oncoming pedestrian, whose pace did not slow. Given no time to even consider moving out of her path, they could only stand by as the familiar wash of phantasmal cold walked right through them. Left choking and gasping and doused in a cruel sense of all-consuming hopelessness, the Guardians and Pitch found Jack recovering from his stunned stupor.

Exhilaration coursed through the novice fear spirit at how his escape came so naturally and swiftly; how the embrace of pure darkness was almost a comfort. He had to try it again. Setting his resolve with determination, he shot them a glance – a wicked glint – and melded with the shadows once more.

Curiously, their clamouring protests seemed to follow him into this world of half existence. But it was strange. Their voices bent and distorted as though trying to reach him through water. Yet Jack could meticulously pick where they stood while he ghosted the gloom around them. When he returned to the tangible world, he was perched upon the fire escape of an apartment complex four floors above.

"That was awesome," he declared, his angst as good as forgotten.

"Awesome? How is any part of this awesome?" Bunny spluttered.

"Because!" Then Jack was gone, leaving his eerily disembodied voice behind. "I can do this…"

The Guardians glanced around nervously, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He appeared on a rooftop across the street; "I'm here." He disappeared a second later; "Now I'm not."

"Cut it out," Bunny called to him.

"Am I here?" came his voice from the abyssal darkness of the alley adjacent.

"Or am I here!" He swung down in front of them, hung by his knees off the exposed rafters of the shopfront, and jump-scared them into near cardiac arrest.

"Great! Glad you're having fun," Bunny groused up at him, still shuddering in the aftermath of disbelief's cold flush. The others only offered similarly sour expressions. With a sigh, Jack repeated the vanishing act and found himself back on the sidewalk, sensibly standing, where he'd been before the woman made them all hapless victims of circumstance.

"Look, I know, I know – this is my fault," he admitted.

"Well…" Tooth wrung her hands and looked sheepishly askance. "Yes."

"And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for ever looking at that stupid spell, but you have to admit this is kind of cool!"

"Time and place, Jack," North said.

Jack sighed again. "Okay. I promise, we'll get back, we'll find the book, and forget this ever happened."

"Not likely," Pitch muttered.

"And yes," Jack continued, "giving Jamie the snow-globes might have been a little…"

"Shonky?" Bunny suggested flatly.

"…Unorthodox. But like it or not, he's the best chance we've got of getting out of here. If he's done what I said and saved them for emergencies, it won't have been for nothing."

Having given up his internal battle between chastising Jack and praising him for his foresight, North eventually conceded a nod of approval.

"Then let us hope you have put your faith the right believer," he said. "Lead the way. There is reason why we do not like to spend longer in the human world than we must."

Jack knew the reason all too well, his own memories of existing as little more than a breath of wind nipping at noses as vivid as three hundred years could make them. With his mouth set in a remorseful line, he nodded and returned to his post at the head of the party. As they walked, he tried to quash the disturbing image of emptiness he'd seen in Pitch's face mere moments after he'd been rendered intangible.

The Bennet household stood sturdy and proud on the corner of the quiet residential street, rising ahead of the Guardians with hopeful promise of a way back. Wrapped in paraphernalia reminiscent of a B-grade horror movie, it was clear the occupants of the house enjoyed a good scare when October drew to a close. Toys otherwise littered the gated front yard, leftover from the day's play, along with chewed up tennis balls courtesy of the resident greyhound. The dog was thankfully inside for the night.

"So…what now?" asked Tooth once they'd slipped in through the side gate.

Bunny tilted his head thoughtfully and rubbed his stubbly chin. "Probably can't knock. Not that the kid's Mum would hear us, but I'd say lights-out was a couple of hours ago — or it should've been…"

Six pairs of eyes panned up to a window on the second floor, through which a faint yellowish glow could be seen illuminating the celling. The shadows cast by the light appeared to be moving.

"He's still awake," said Jack with a grin. "No problem, I can just shadow — teleport — whatever this is — up there and–"

"Jack, you can't just appear in Jamie's room," Tooth interrupted.

He faltered, perplexed. "What do you mean? I do it all the time."

"Maybe, but I gotta tell you, mate, you're a sight for sore eyes," Bunny said. "And regular shindigs or not, he's not gonna take well to you jumping up out of nowhere. Not when you look like…" Sights shifted uncomfortably to Pitch, who was scowling at them for all his worth. With his silent seething, they'd almost forgotten he had been trailing behind them the entire way.

He gave a contemptuous grunt and said, "That, and it would be an insult to us both if you managed to frighten a child more than I could. Regardless of the state we're in."

Though disheartened, Jack had to admit their concerns were valid. The last thing he wanted was to scare Jamie.

"Okay, then it'll have to be someone else," he said. His roving gaze took note of Bunny, who was shifting from foot to foot, seemingly unable to keep still and lightly frosting the grass where he stood. "I've got it. Bunny, fly up to his room and try to get his attention."

The new winter sprite gave him an incredulous look. "Fly? Up there? Oi nah, fuh–"

Something ricocheted off Jamie's window pane.

"…Koff."

They turned to see Pitch aiming for the window, a pebble in his hand.

"What?" he snapped. "You're all wasting time and since I'm the only one here with a brain, apparently, I decided to use it."

"You're the only one with wings, too. Could've used those," said Jack with a shrug.

"For so many reasons, _no_."

The scheme had worked though. Having heard the battery assaulting his window pane, the shutters upstairs opened with a click of the catch and a creaking of hinges. Lo and behold, leaning out across the sill was the boy they sought.

"Jamie!" Jack called.

"Jack…?" Jamie scanned them all in the yard below, squinting through the darkness of the moonless night. "Easter Bunny…Tooth Fairy?"

"Uh, not quite," said Tooth with a smile that might have been a grimace. "Jamie, we're really sorry but we need your help. Something's happened."

Never one to question an adventure in the making, the boy's eyes gleamed. "I'll be right down!" In less than two minutes, Jamie had stolen through the house and was at the front door, holding it open. "You can come in," he said quietly, "Abby's in Sophie's room tonight."

Following the clumsy procession, Sandy came last up the front porch steps and ushered them all into the modest house as he went, much to the disgruntlement of Pitch. With two fingers the little man pointed from his own eyes to the Nightmare King's, his expression far too foreboding for one of such a jovial face.

 _'I'm watching you,'_ he meant.

"What could I possibly do to him now?" Pitch snarked lowly. "Pull out his teeth with a pair of rusty…? Ah. Now that might actually work."

Sandy balled up a fist and slapped it into his palm.

"Please," Pitch said, rolling his eyes, "I don't want anything from the boy, except a means to get out of here and away from you. I want this to be over. Yesterday."

At least that was something upon which they could agree. Jutting out his chin and harnessing every ounce of his self-control, Sandy gave a sharp nod and refrained from outright shoving Pitch up the stairs after the others – and kicking him back down them again.

Soon, they were comfortably settled within the confines of Jamie's room. Though sharing the space with his assorted action figures, toy chest, cluttered bookshelf, and desk strewn with haphazardly organised homework cramped things a little. Unfortunately, the room had never been designed with one boy and six adult-sized spirits in mind, so elbow room was in short supply. Apparently, the light they had seen earlier was a gradually dimming flashlight; Jamie had been up reading volume ten of Rainbow Quest (instead of sleeping), which was open and lying face-down on his bed.

"It's so good to see you again! The others are gonna freak out at school tomorrow when I tell them you're back. Did you see our front-yard? It's so creepy! The zombie was my idea. You guys must be real excited for Halloween, huh? I didn't even know you liked dressing up," Jamie rambled, picking up the end of Tooth's wrap and marvelling at the glittering, sand-encrusted garment.

"We don't," said Tooth, ushering him over to his bed for him to better be seen by all. "I mean, not that we don't like dressing up, or Halloween, or the Spirit of Halloween himself–"

"Tooth is meaning we do not usually have time for the Halloween festivities," said North.

As he plonked down onto the foot of his bed, something seemed to occur to Jamie then. He tilted his head at the fuzzy Pooka. "…You're not Bunny," he realised.

"Nope. I'm over here," said Bunny, giving a casual salute. His appearance was possibly even more surprising, and had Jamie wondering why he'd mistaken the white-haired man with a shoulder pack and arm cuffs as Jack at all in the commotion of moving upstairs. They looked nothing alike.

"Oh, wow. What happened to you guys?" asked Jamie, scratching his head. Then panic struck him. "Are kids not believing again?!"

"No, the children are fine! Everything will be okay – we think," Tooth reassured him, though she may just as well have been trying to reassure herself. "Long story short, we think our powers might have been switched, so now we're trying to change them back.

Jamie's jaw dropped open. "That's so cool!" he exclaimed.

"No, no. Not cool," Bunny corrected. "Very bad. And uncomfortable." He absentmindedly lifted his arm to scratch at his armpit, only to stop abruptly when he realised what he was doing. "…And weird."

The look on Jamie's face begged to differ. "How did it happen?" he asked.

"Spell books. Inexperience. Recipe for disaster," said North. "Is not important. What we need is-"

"Wait."

Jamie brought the conversation to a grinding halt when he spied an odd face hanging back in the corner of his room where his desk sat. Without warning, he scrambled off the bed and eagerly pushed his way through to meet the disgruntled stranger, who had a wing tangled in the model Solar System he hung proudly from his ceiling. However, Jamie stopped short when he received a brief hostile glare from the newcomer and froze to the spot. The strange man, now much less of a stranger, turned his attention back to the tangled mess of string and Styrofoam spheres.

"You brought _him_ with you?" Jamie hissed to the others and slowly backed away.

"We had to," said Tooth apologetically. "For some reason, he got caught up in this as well."

Pitch stopped fussing and his golden gaze caught Jamie like a deer in headlights. A peculiar expression crossed his face as he appraised the boy properly for the first time.

"You can see me?" he asked.

Jamie nodded, wide eyed.

"You believe, but you are not afraid" Pitch said, a bitterness punctuating his tone. "How noble of you to keep your word." He returned to freeing himself, deciding simply to yank the fixture from the ceiling and dislodge it that way.

"Hey, I got an A on that," Jamie protested.

"How?" Pitch asked. He held the crumpled mobile up to scrutinise it. "It's not even to scale. And do you honestly think Neptune is blue?"

Jamie scowled, but refused to argue with the irate Boogeyman. As Jack had said, he was smart; and smart kids didn't pick fights with people who could cut them to the bone with their silver tongue. Instead, he posed a question to the Guardians.

"Not that it's not cool you're here, but…why?"

"Snow-globes," Bunny grunted. "Frostbite here told us he left you some that we could possibly use."

Jamie's eyes found the one entity he was yet to notice, not that he could be blamed for his oversight. His friend – his best friend – had been unusually silent and was almost cloaked by a darkness that the light of his torch couldn't seem to reach. The smile Jack offered him should have put him at ease, but it was wrong. There was something subtly sinister about it, if unintentionally so, and for the first time that night Jamie felt afraid. The newly appointed Nightmare Prince had the misfortune to know that fear was because of him.

Worse still, Jack found he wanted more of that fear.

"Jack…" To Jamie's credit, he kept a straight face. "You look different."

"Yeah, kiddo," Jack laughed, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck. "Just a little. Remember how I gave you those snow-globes after Easter? I said to save them for a rainy day and only use them in an emergency? Well, as you can see we have a bit of a crisis on our hands. If you could help us out, we really need to borrow one of them to get back to North's."

"Oh yeah, I've still got them," Jamie said. The relief in the room was almost palpable. "How come you need them though? Don't you carry–" He paused abruptly, looking them over again, and several things clicked into place. For one, North, being a somewhat anthropomorphic rabbit, was not wearing his coat. The now humanoid Bunny was obviously not carrying anything in his pockets. And if their forms and powers had been switched…

"You can't do your magic anymore," he said with dawning dread, "I mean, you don't have the powers you're supposed to have!"

"Perceptive for one with no sense of taste," muttered one feathered Boogeyman, who was now flipping through one of Jamie's crypto-conspiracy books. "…Who the hell is Phil?"

"Hey!" Jamie snapped, fearlessly – and to the Guardians' horror – marching over to Pitch to snatch his book back. They were poised to defend, but Jamie merely received a coldly raised brow for his pluckiness. Hugging the book protectively to his chest, he said to the Guardians, "Yes, I can help you get back. I put the snow-globes up on that shelf." He pointed to the one behind his desk, displaying a model plane, more books, a stuffed stegosaurus…and a red bag. "They had to be up high so Sophie wouldn't find them, since I couldn't hide them in my closet or under my bed, obviously."

"Obviously," Pitch agreed with a sneer. Tucking his wings against his back, he turned, reached for the bag, and passed it into Jamie's waiting hand with surprising care. Not even he was going to risk tossing the delicate baubles and destroying their only passage back.

"Here," Jamie said, handing the bag to North. "I guess they belong to you, don't they? They're all in there, since I never had to use them. It was still nice having them just in case though, so thank you."

North pried the drawstrings open and counted one, two, three snow-globes tucked safely away in the cradling fabric of the bag. He gave Jamie a grateful smile.

"See, what did I tell you?" Jack said, proudly grinning at his most faithful believer. He stopped when Jamie's fears told him he was showing too many teeth.

"Many thanks, Jamie," North said, tousling his hair. "But perhaps Jack was right to give you snow-globes. By keeping them you saved us and have proven you are trustworthy. Since we only need one I would like the rest to stay with you – just in case."

Jamie looked from North to Jack, then back to North in disbelief. "Really?" he asked.

"Think of it as early Christmas present," North said in a conspiratorial whisper as he passed over the two remaining baubles, "just keep them safe." Then to the others he called, "Are we ready?"

"Have been for the last hour," Bunny replied. "Let's get cracking."

Drawing the snow-globe up to his lips, North shot Jack a brief, approving smile that relieved him of a tension he didn't know he'd been carrying.

"I say North Pole."

The sphere of glass shimmered and rippled to reveal an image of their destination within, until North shattered it against a wall to activate the swirling vortex of colour and light that would take them home. As the Guardians and Pitch stepped through, Jack turned to Jamie one last time and dropped to a knee so they were eye-to-eye.

"I know I look like him," he said, "but I promise it's still me in here. You know I would never do anything to hurt you, right?"

Jamie nodded, and holding his gaze earnestly Jack could hear with absolute clarity the fears that clattered around the boy's head, filling it with racket.

_**Jack – A bit scary – But still Jack – What if they can't turn back? – What if he forgets about me? – What if he forgets about himself?** _

"I won't, Jamie." Jack grasped his shoulders firmly. "I promise I won't."

Jamie gasped. "How did you—?"

"It doesn't matter," he said, trying once again with a thin-lipped, reassuring smile. "Just don't be afraid. Not of me, not of anything. Okay?"

"Okay," Jamie said, flinging his arm around Jack's neck for a quick hug before he followed the others to North's realm.

As Jack waved goodbye, Jamie wondered if the way the spirit boy flickered for a moment was a trick of the light beyond the portal, or a result of his own bleary-eyed exhaustion.

— O —

As soon as Jack stepped foot in North's Globe Room, he and the Russian Pooka were sprinting their way to the library of spell books on the third level, bypassing several disgruntled yetis who had to do a double-take when they saw the bizarre pair. They didn't stop. There would be time for North to explain his mysterious absence later.

They followed the twists and turns of the dingy passage, Jack's feet becoming more familiar with the route with each step they took, until they reached the double doors.

"Did they close by themselves?" Jack asked as North expertly turned the dials.

"Doors will always close themselves once library is empty for security," he said. "And in case I forget to do myself."

The carvings of vines twisted to life and North was then able to wrench the doors open. They both tumbled into the room, and without wasting a second Jack ran to his chair. He leapt tables and dodged flying books that were of no use to them. And stopped.

The book…

North bounded up next to him, only slightly out of breath, and looked to him expectantly. "Where is it? Do you have it?"

Jack couldn't answer, for his mouth had dried up. North was quick to catch on why.

"Let's not panic just yet," North said, attempting to remain calm. A nervous tremor in his voice betrayed him. He hopped over to the lectern a few feet away to find his own book from before still sitting there as though they had never left, which did not bode well. They tried not to lose hope as they rummaged and waited for long, agonising minutes, overturning cushions, furniture and other tomes that darted away in an almost disgruntled fashion. But deep down, both Jack and North knew; they had been there too long already. The book should have revealed itself by now.

"It's not here," Jack rasped, gripping his staff for the feeble support it offered. "It's gone."

"No. No, books do not disappear. Not ever. We will wait for it to show. It will show," North insisted.

But as it was, the book never came.


	6. Jailbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Pitch finds that Belief is a double edged sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An important notice: While no one was looking, I may have gone back and re-written/rearranged the first three chapters... Yes, you can hate me, but don't panic! Pretty much everything is as it was, I've just changed up the order of the scenes a little for pacing. Hopefully for any new readers this is going to be more engaging. If you've already read everything published and are up to date, it's up to you if you want to go back. Nothing changes in terms of crucial information. This is mostly for entertainment value.

_Central incisor. Montreal, sector eight_.

_First molar. Kuala Lumpur, sector one._

_Cuspid. Moscow, sector five._

_First molar. Tokyo, sector four._

_Lateral incisor. Dubai._

_Cuspid. Versailles._

_Second molar. Rome._

_Central incisor._

_Second molar._

_Cuspid._

_Molar._

_Incisor._

_“Pitch!”_

_“What?!”_

Pitch blinked as the snarl left his lips. The rugged timber interior of North’s Globe Room and reception hall came back into focus, along with the saccharine scent of gingerbread intermingled with sawdust. His gaze settled on Tooth, glimmering and sand-swept in her Dreamweaver’s garb. From across the reception hall, she cowered behind hands risen in defence, and stared at him through a grimace of anticipated retaliation. The others had gone. She was the only one left in the room besides himself. A sentry. His lip curled in a sneer. 

“What are you going to do; send me running with another of your ‘expertly’ crafted dreams?” he asked.

“No, I…” Tooth’s jaw clenched, indignation written plain on her face, but she trailed off and lowered her arms. The colour of her cheeks deepened. “I was trying to ask if you were alright,” she said. 

“Oh, I’m marvellous. Never better. Why on Earth would anything be wrong?” 

“You’ve been catatonic for the last five minutes. I only asked because I thought you could use my help, but if you don’t want it-”

“That’s exactly right.” Pitch squared his shoulders—ignoring how the motion elicited an involuntary twitch from his wings—and glared directly back at her. “Let’s get one thing straight, Toothiana: I do not want, nor need your help. We are still sworn enemies; my being here means nothing. Before the hour is past, North and Frost will have returned with their book, and all will be as it was. So, spare me your amiable dreck.” 

Tooth’s lips pressed into a tight line as she waged an internal war with herself. What to do with a villainous wretch like himself, trapped like a lion in a cage and possessed by the voices of lost teeth? 

“Fine,” she said, and crossed her arms tight over her chest. In desperate search of anyone who might grant her a reprieve from him and his scathing remarks, her eyes darted over to a nearby corridor. She breathed a sigh of relief. Bunny (no less a creature of vermin than he had been before his transformation) sauntered in, wearing well-fitting trousers of earthy olive hemp fastened by twine. He had also somehow acquired an indigo vest, but left it unbuttoned. Whorls of ice covered every inch of his new attire. 

“There really wasn’t anything else? Like a shirt?” Tooth asked, regarding the hexagonal patterned tattoos that marked the skin of his torso with a skeptical glance. 

“Nope, didn’t see any,” Bunny grunted.

Tooth quirked a challenging brow.

“Oh, come on. Any more layers and I’ll be sweating bullets. Just leave it alone, alright? It’s enough of a sauna in here as it is.” 

Sandy was the last to return. He took his time ambling back to the reception hall, holding a near empty bottle of golden-brown liquid in one hand, and a short glass in the other. A peevish yeti followed close on his heels, shooing him away from the direction of North’s private workshop. All the while, his face was plastered with a smug smile. 

“North’s gonna be coming for your arse when he sees you drained the bottle,” Bunny said. Sandy shrugged and took another swig. 

“Gather round, everyone.” 

The group swiveled as Jack and North departed the lift that ascended from the yetis’ commercial workshop. It was North who had spoken. His face was drained of the urgency with which he had sprinted on all fours to the library before, and it reified the noxious vapour of unease the rest of them had breathed into their lungs while they waited. But North’s foreboding air was not all that unnerved the congregation.

Very little of Jack Frost remained in the figure that stalked up to meet them, or so it appeared. The menacing moroseness of Jack’s face had changed him. He was no longer the frivolous boy of winter, but a spirit of cacodemonia*. The only echo of his former self was the blasé manner in which he twirled his staff, passing it from one hand to the other in a motion of habit. It was uncanny, Pitch thought, the felicitous ways in which Jack otherwise filled the title of the Fearling Prince.

“Where’s the book? Did you find it?” Tooth asked. 

Despite having requested their undivided attention, both Jack and North stalled, at a loss for words. 

“Where is it?” Bunny urged. 

“It is gone,” said North. 

Sandy’s hands dropped to his sides, having all but forgotten about the drink he was nursing. It poured out onto the ground, permeating the room with a smell of sweetened, distilled spirits, though no one batted an eyelid. As for Pitch, his vision began to swim. A phantom fire sizzled at his fingertips, a muscle memory of the powers that might have allowed him to escape what was quickly becoming a nightmarish ordeal. He stared dead ahead, and fixed his gaze on a lamp hung from a nearby pillar. 

_Lateral incisor. Bangladesh, sector two._

What do you mean gone? he heard his weakened voice ask.

We looked everywhere, but it’s disappeared from the last place I had it. 

_Cuspid. Versailles, sector three._

And it has not returned to shelf. Is bol'shaya problema.

But surely…surely, we don’t need it to recite a little counter curse, right?

First molar. Tokyo, sector four.

If I knew which spell Jack used then maybe not. But Jack does not understand Russian, so he does not know either.

Mate, he understood well enough to get us here in the first place. 

_Central incisor. Montreal, sector eight._

I just read it. I never said I understood what it meant. Just because you string a couple of syllables together doesn’t mean you—Tooth…? 

Pitch wrenched himself out his hypnotic state, blinking through white spots burned into his vision by the light. Their congregation of six had reduced to five. Tooth drifted away from the reception hall out onto the Globe Room’s main floor, a dreamsand storm gathering in tumultuous clouds above her head. 

With his back stiffened, and nose and twitching, North asked, “Toothie, are you alright?” Tooth did not turn around. 

“The lights,” she said. “Look at the lights.”

As a collective, they crept on uncertain feet to join Tooth where she was braced against the bannister. Millions of golden stars freckled the blue-green face of the globe, clustered in capital cities, or splattered across rural landscapes. Of those millions, almost half were starting to flicker. They wavered like candles in the wind, dimming, then brightening, then fading away until they could hardly be seen at all. Some extinguished altogether. As he looked on in a kind of bland curiosity, Pitch recalled the one truth that had driven his crusade during the Nightmare War: those lights did not dim easily. It took something significant to wound the ferocity with which they burned.

“How long have we been gone, exactly?” asked Tooth. There was a break in her voice. A nervous crack. Pitch glanced at the others, who offered no more insight than himself. Sandy’s hands were glued to his head, flattening the tuffs of greying hair to his scalp. Bunny mouthed a silent calculation of unknown variables. Jack looked as though he was about to be sick. 

North was the only one who literally and figuratively jumped into action. Without a word, he scrambled away down the far corridor in a blur of white and black, and returned less than a minute later with an answer. 

“Twenty-nine hours.” 

“What?!” Tooth gasped. 

“According to Phil. That is how long we have been gone.”

“You’re joking,” Bunny rasped.

“I wish I was.” 

“Wait, are you saying that if we stop working for even a day, then kids stop believing just like that?” Jack asked, looking between his colleagues and the lights. 

“Is not quite that simple,” North answered. “We all work every day, but for myself and Bunny that work is only noticed one day of the year. For Tooth and Sandy, is different. They are gone for a day; the children know something is wrong. Tooth especially. And you saw what happened last time: losing Tooth is like taking Molotov cocktail to our legs.”

Tooth gave a strained smile as Bunny and Sandy nodded their agreements, but the gravity of their situation soon turned it into a pained grimace. “This is a disaster. I only just finished filing all the teeth that were stolen, I can’t collect any of the new ones without my coordinates, my fairies don’t even know where I am…” She paused to take a calming breath when Sandy gave her a consolatory pat on the arm. “What am I supposed to do?” 

To Jack, it seemed, the solution was simple. “Why don’t we just fill in for each other?” 

Each face in the room fell with varied darkened expressions. From shock and bafflement to hesitant intrigue, the Guardians were unsure how to react to such a proposal. They looked to North, who frowned and settled on his haunches as he considered the idea. “Actually, I was thinking the same thing,” he said, “but I am not sure this is the best way to-”

“What are you talking about? It’s the only way,” said Jack. 

“Nope!” Bunny pointed a warning finger between the two of them. “No, the way we fix this is by finding the counter curse like we said we would.”

“We don’t have time to keep looking,” said Jack. 

“He’s right, they’re going out too fast.” Tooth clutched the fabric of her wrap as she slipped worried glances back at the globe. “Even if we do find what we’re looking for, it could take hours. Maybe days. We can’t afford to take that long.” 

North muttered something under his breath, thinking through their dwindling options. He scratched his chin, the same way he might have done if he’d still had his beard. In the time it took for him to decide, the globe had completed half a turn. “We would have to be learning our new jobs while mentoring someone else,” he said slowly. “Do you all realise this?”

Sandy nodded, somber but exuding determination. The others, sans Bunny, held a similar sentiment.

“Yeah,” said Jack. “And it’ll be tricky at first, but once we find a routine it’ll be easier. In the meantime, when we’re not training ourselves or someone else, we’ll keep searching for the book. We’re bound to find it if we do.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, showing keen remorse for the turmoil he had wrought. His desperation for a scrap of the North’s approval rolled off him in waves. “So, what do you say? It’s worth a shot, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

The Guardians startled. Pitch greeted their indignation with a flash of his bared teeth. How quick they were to forget. But he was still there. Still a spanner jammed into the clockworks of their perfect plan. 

“You have a lot of gall to assume I would be so willing to help. You banished me to the forgotten recesses of those children’s minds! Give me one reason—one _good_ reason why I shouldn’t let the same happen to you.”

“For starters, you’d be going out in public like that for the rest of eternity,” Bunny deadpanned. 

“Go suck an icicle, you inbred,” Pitch snapped. He clenched his fists, catching nothing but air as he tried to keep himself grounded. Vehement detestation coursed through his veins. And he wanted them- 

_(Cuspid. Versailles, sector three.)_

-to feel it; to absorb his unadulterated loathing until there was nothing between them but blind hatred. As it had always been. “I am not a part of this. I am not connected to you or your precious believers, and I intend to keep it that way.”

“But you are,” said North. “You feel it too just now. When the lights flicker, you feel them take something away from you, no? That is Belief.” 

“Belief…” Pitch emitted a laugh so devoid of humour it chilled even him.

“The children believe in you, but not for very much longer if you do not do something to help.”

“They don’t believe in me. They believe in _he_ r,” Pitch said with a grand, sweeping gesture in Tooth’s direction.

“They believe in the Tooth Fairy. The Guardian of Memories, whoever that is,” said North. His gesticulations became more pronounced with every hint of frustration that seeped into his tone. “Most of them don’t know what she looks like—what any of us look like. They just know to believe because we give them a reason. You may not be a Guardian, but as long as you are in her place, you are that reason. They believe in you.”

Pitch was barred from retaliating by the bitter taste of bile that rose in his throat. For hundreds of years he had chased this Holy Grail. Always tantalising and teasing; never quite within his grasp. But instead of seizing Belief in the palm of his hand, it was he who had been caught. Possessed. Branded. He was branded. A slave to the capricious whims of children, yet forced to pay for those short but nonetheless stolen hours with his life. 

“And if I refuse?” he asked.

“Then Jack is no longer obliged to fill your position. You will have no one to continue your work,” said Tooth. She was bold and impudent in the way she held herself. Somehow she managed to look down her nose at him despite her small stature. “You know as well as we do that you can’t affect change; not like before. Instead, you will be left to watch while the world spins out of your control. You’ll fade into oblivion along with us, knowing that not only children, but all human beings will live their lives without fear. Is that what you want?”

He shook his head, fighting the urge to grind his teeth. “The Nightmares know their duties. They would be more than happy to continue on in my absence.”

“But what are your Nightmares without their master, Pitch?” 

The temperature in the room plummeted as Pitch challenged Tooth’s defiant gaze. There was a quiet, dignified fury in her eyes. A fury reserved-

_(Second molar. Dublin. Sector eleven)_

-just for him. This was not the first time he had seen it. Pitch said nothing. He seethed. But Toothiana was right. The Nightmares would not be able to stop. They would follow their orders, and string themselves out to do so. Like elastics stretched too thin. Without him they would snap and disintegrate. Without him—without _someone_ to rein them in, the last remains of his legacy would be lost. 

“Are we agreed, then?” North asked, breaking into the silence. “We will maintain the truce, and you will help us for as long as it takes to restore our powers.”

“It appears I don’t have a choice,” Pitch gritted out. 

“You reckon we’re happy about this?” Bunny sniped. Sandy elbowed him in the knee. 

“Then we have no time to lose.” North clapped his paws twice and summoned a drove of elves in jingling red hats to attention. They gamboled out onto the floor from their network of secret passages, some dazed, some argumentative, all of them childlike in attitude. “Dingle, I need your unit to ready my office and the workshop. Jangle, take your team to the stores and bring back twelve snow globes. Tinkle, go find Phil and bring him here. Squelch…watch Dingle’s team in case they are stealing cookies.” 

With a series of uncoordinated salutes, the elves took off to their allocated destinations as quickly as they had come running, which in no way alleviated the group’s confusion. 

“What’s all this for?” Bunny asked. 

“I am preparing for later, when I show Sandy how to _not_ run entire North Pole into the ground.” 

Sandy, who had been taking not-so-discreet sips from the bottle in his hand, choked, and looked to North in a state of bewilderment. As he tried to regain his composure, his gaze panned slowly around the Globe Room, taking in the chaos of workers, yeti and elf alike. He exhaled with a puff of his cheeks. 

“And the rest of you…” North scampered over on hind and front legs to meet a pair of his elves as they returned. They rolled a snowglobe across the floor between them, making a game of moving the inventory. Others soon followed, heaving a sizable wooden crate filled with the delicate crystal bubbles and a collection of red draw-string bags. They shoved it into position at North’s feet. He plucked a snowglobe out of the pile and held it aloft for them all to see. “The rest of you will be needing a way to your new homes, da?”

“You can’t be serious,” Pitch croaked. 

“You especially,” North said, gesturing to him. “You have new workers to meet. I am sure they are very anxious for an introduction.”

Pitch did not merely stare at the crystal ball held in North’s paw as it gleamed by firelight like molten glass; he looked into it. Out of magic’s abstract shapes formed a furious swarm of green hornets. They circled in attack formation, bloodthirsty and vengeful. Pitch shuddered and looked away. The thought of facing the horde of fairies he had slighted was nothing short of-

_(First molar. Tokyo, sector four.)_

-alarming, for his sentence at their hands was sure to be death by a thousand pin pricks. But with her hand reaching to grasp the bannister, the golden glow of Tooth’s face blanched to a nauseating ochre as she too realised the implications of their arrangement. What Pitch saw, when her eyes flickered up to appraise him, was fear. A fear of him. Of what he might do. This roused in him a spiteful glee, and a sense of normalcy he gladly embraced.

“What’s the matter, Toothiana?” he asked on a velvety purr. “I’m here to help. Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

“If you do anything to hurt them…”

Pitch struck a hand to his chest, as though it was he who had been wounded. “I would never attack anyone unprovoked, least of all one of your fairies. I thought we knew each other better than that.”

“You did that to all of them and worse,” she hissed with her fists balled.

Pitch tilted his head, mocking her with a derisive sneer. “I never harmed your little minion pests, _Sand Flea_ ; I simply relocated them.”

“Hey!” Jack took his staff in hand and clutched it in a white knuckled grip. He marched right up to Pitch, who expressed little more than mild annoyance as the Sheppard’s crook was aimed just below his chin. “Back off,” he ordered. 

“And just what do you plan on doing with that, Frost?” Pitch pushed the staff away with the tip of his finger and scoffed at Jack’s scandalised gasp. “Freeze me to death with a cold shoulder if you must, but I assure you that’s as far as you’ll get.” 

Tooth scurried over to grasp the boy by a shoulder before he could rile again. “Jack, that’s enough,” she said. 

“But he’s-”

“I know. It’s okay, I can handle it.” 

Jack allowed himself to be led away, but not without aiming a scathing glare at Pitch over his shoulder as he warned, “I can make or break those Nightmares of yours now, remember that.” 

“Gladly. As long as you extend the same courtesy to me,” Pitch said, not bothering to veil the threat in his undertone. And if seeing Tooth and Jack squirm in jittery disquietude caused something wicked to thrill through his veins, he would make no denial of the fact.

“I know it would be too much to ask for your co-operation, Pitch, but we cannot afford an altercation,” said North, having chosen that moment to step into the crossfire. “Work with us, not against us, and this will be over much sooner.”

Pitch folded his arms, flaring his nostrils with an irate huff. “As you wish,” was his smarmy agreement, and with that North forged ahead. 

“Bunny, take these.” He rummaged through the crate at his feet and bagged three snowglobes. The fourth was held out as an offering in his paw.

“Cheers,” Bunny said, and reached for both items.

“Also, while I am here it may be best if you take Jack to the Warren,” North added. Bunny retracted his hands with eyes narrowed, and gave Jack a dubious, side-long appraisal. He was still under Tooth’s supervision, voicing quiet protests. Bunny wrinkled his nose slightly. “Can’t he just stay here?”

“Christmas is less than two months away, old friend. As much as I would prefer having Jack here, I am about be under a lot more pressure than I was two days ago, and keeping him out of trouble was hard enough before. Also, you are a frost sprite with no control over abilities. You need instruction. The last thing we want is you turning the Warren into winter wonderland.”

With his mouth pressed into a frown, Bunny breathed a defeated sigh and snatched the snowglobe out of North’s paw. “If he starts spewing black magic all over the place, he’s coming right back,” he said. Then to Jack he called, “Come on, Frostbite.” Jack looked over in confusion. “Looks like you’re bunking with me.” Bunny guided Jack across the Globe Room floor several feet away, and tossed the snowglobe a few times in his hand—just as a pitcher might assess the spin or weight of his ball. “The Warren,” he muttered before winding his arm back and smashing the glass sphere to the floor. A portal flared up in front of them, the expansive spring realm and its rolling green hills just visible on the other side.

“Jack, wait,” North called.

Jack turned, clutching his staff tight in both hands. Despite the uncertain frown of his face, there was a look that might have been mistaken for hope. “Yeah?” he prompted.

“Be careful.”

Jack’s shoulders seemed to deflate, and his gaze dropped to the floor momentarily. Strands of his unruly black fringe fell in his face, but he pushed them back as he lifted his chin and nodded, presenting a stiff upper lip as both he and Bunny took their leave and stepped through the shimmering void.

“That was…compliant of them,” Tooth said as the portal closed in on itself with a faint _whoosh_. The air shifted, rushing back to fill the empty space. 

“We will be hearing from Bunny later, no doubt,” North replied. Beside him, Sandy was shaking his head to himself. “But enough. You have order to restore back at the Palace, no?”

“How could I forget,” Tooth replied with thin smile. She pointed with a dainty, manicured finger to the crate. “May I?”

“Of course.” 

Pitch observed, silent and statuesque as North picked out a bag and placed two snowglobes inside. He then selected two more, but paused before he could stow them away in another bag. 

“Perhaps we should let you hold on to all of them for now,” North said quietly to Tooth. Catching his meaning, she glanced at Pitch and nodded. Pitch set his mouth in a line that pressed his lips pale as outrage-

_(Cuspid. Moscow, sector five.)_

-simmered in his very core. 

“What am I? A prisoner?” he spat.

“More of a flight risk,” said Tooth. She took the bag in hand, thanking North as she did, and was about to retrieve a snowglobe when she noticed he had not taken his eyes off it. “Oh, don’t worry. They’re yours whenever you need them. All you have to do is ask. You’ll find I can be very reasonable when it comes to allowances.” 

Without another word of preamble, Tooth activated a portal. Pitch’s breath suddenly hitched in his throat. His blood ran cold. The gate shimmered in a technicolor display, towering over him like a tidal wave, threatening to crash and drown him. He could just make out the world beyond. It came through in pastel flashes of green and pink. The light bent as though distorted by the surface of water. 

“Shall we?” Tooth invited him to lead the way. It was not a request. 

Had Pitch indulged the chuckle that rose and threatened to escape him, it would have sounded as dry and hopeless as the crunching of dead leaves. He was a prisoner. A convict. Why try to sugar coat it? With the Sandwoman as his warden, his only egress led to another realm even more treacherous than the last.

Pitch gave Tooth no answer. Instead, he gritted his teeth and stepped through the border between worlds, leaving the haven of the North Pole behind.

— O —

“Are you sure this is the place the sprites were talking about?” 

Valentina’s critical gaze swept the deserted clearing in the darkness before dawn. A bitter wind rustled in the boughs above, making autumn leaves look more like bat wings. They flapped against a twisted cage of claws, their murmurings rising to a volley of screeches. Valentina shuddered and shook her mind free of the image. The wings were leaves once more. She looked to Patrick, his gleaming green eyes burned through the night like phosphorescent stars. 

“I’m sure,” she said. 

“Okay.” He nodded, rubbing his clean-shaven chin with a calloused hand. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying there’s no one here.” 

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Valentina deadpanned. She hitched up the ruffles of her skirts and fastened them out of the way, giving herself full range of motion. She then set off to complete a full lap of the clearing with eyes fixed to the ground while Patrick remained. He turned slowly on the spot, peering into the endless blackness beyond the first line of trees, ready to retaliate at the first sign of danger.

“Aye, Sherlock, what’re you looking for?” Patrick called. 

“Something…” Valentina studied the undergrowth at her feet, the bark of the trees, anything that might betray clues of a scuffle or altercation having taken place. “I don’t know. This is the place, but something doesn’t feel right. I just want to check before we go. Call me crazy.” 

“Why else do you think I keep you around?” 

Valentina looked up to see him grinning at her, and stifled a laugh. “Because you’re just as sane as I am,” she replied drily. 

“Whatever you’re doing, make it quick. If they’re gone, then we need to…” Patrick paused midsentence and whipped around on the spot to scan the thicket. He held his fists fitted with his shining brass knocks at the ready. Several seconds passed before he exhaled and relaxed his stance. 

“Did you see anything?” asked Valentina.

Patrick shook his head. “Thought I heard something. You’re right though, this place is giving me the creeps”

“Oh?” Valentina put a hand to her hip. “What happened to the fearless Leprechaun who was about to serve a knuckle sandwich to a centuries-old demon for looking at him funny?

“You think he’s fearless, eh?”

Valentina’s impish smirk faltered. Her brow furrowed. “You think he isn’t?” 

“I know without a shade of doubt he’s bleedin’ eejit who got his arse saved by sheer dumb luck. I also know he’d pummel that Oni bastard into the ground if he threatened you like that again. But he’s not fearless.”

Valentina blinked in surprise, struck speechless for a moment. It wasn’t unusual for Patrick to say or do such things; despite his hardened exterior, he could be rather chivalrous when he wanted. But every time, without fail, Valentina found herself caught off guard. Heat would warm her cheeks, just as it was doing now, and she would bite her lip in some misguided attempt to slow her pulse. But that was nothing Patrick needed to know. He didn’t mean what he said like that. 

“I think he’s brave,” she said at last. “Or at least-” She suddenly cut off with a curse. Her hands flew to her bow. “Behind-!”

Patrick’s eyes widened to saucers. He whirled around and lurched into a fighting stance. Watching from the shadows were a pair of motionless, disembodied, yellow eyes. Then they moved. 

“Shit,” Patrick hissed. 

Valentina was quick to reach for an arrow from the quiver at her belt as she ran over to join him. In less than three seconds, she retrieved her bow from where it was slung over her shoulder and nocked an arrow to the bowstring.

“Val, get behind me.” 

“Not unless you want to be target practice.” 

The eyes were skirting the perimeter, drawing ever closer as the radius of their circle tightened. They paused just outside the tree line border. This time, Patrick and Valentina were able to make out the shape of the beast to which those eyes belonged. It was big. Monstrous. With hooves that clipped at the ground as it walked. The snort of its breath curled away in a fine mist when it hit the cold night air. Valentina drew the string of her bow taught, prepared to fire at will. 

“Wait a minute. Is that…?” Patrick stumbled back in shock as the beast suddenly thundered into the clearing. He knocked Valentina into firing her arrow off course, into the trunk of a far-off tree. Both drew a gasp when they saw it clearly for the first time. 

A substance akin to metal filings made up the beast’s equine form. Its structure was strange; skeletal almost. Curved tusks protruded from either side of its mouth, and its mane flowed in ribbons of gravity-defying, glistening black granules. As it approached, it encircled Patrick and Valentina with its head bowed and teeth bared, maneuvering them till they were back to back. 

“This is a Nightmare…” Valentina breathed. 

“You’re telling me.”

“No.” She gripped Patrick by the wrist. “It’s a _Nightmare_. It’s one of his.”

“You mean Pitch?”

“Yes. The entrance to his realm is around here somewhere. Maybe it escaped.” The Nightmare’s circle tightened, like a shark closing in for the kill. Valentina felt Patrick stiffen beside her. 

“That’s mighty interesting. Now are you going to take it out, or not?” 

Valentina reached for another arrow and nocked it to the bowstring. “No, I thought I’d buy it dinner first.” 

The Nightmare rounded one last time before coming to a standstill to lock eyes with Valentina. It looked, but saw right through her. As though it knew she wouldn’t strike beyond defending herself. She felt Patrick shift against her back to greet the Nightmare with one of his infamous, dairy-curding sneers. The Nightmare emitted a shriek-like bray at the sudden movement. Each rumbling breath was warm and damp against Valentina’s skin. It was so close. But for some reason, it did not charge.

“What do ye want?” Patrick demanded. The Nightmare gave no indication it had understood the question. A blink was the only intermission to its haunting stare. Yet despite its disquieting presence, the Nightmare was far more docile in nature than Valentina might have expected. It certainly didn’t live up to the reputation that preceded its kind. Slowly, she lowered her weapon.

“I guess if it’s not trying to kill us, we won’t try to kill it,” she decided, though her conviction was dubious at best. 

Patrick emitted a growl from the back of his throat. “That’s just what it wants you to think. Nách mór an diabhal thú!”**

The Nightmare reared up to kick out its front legs with a shriek. Valentina grabbed Patrick by the arm and pulled him back several paces. 

“I think our chances of leaving here in one piece will be better if you don’t offend it,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. The Nightmare suddenly turned away. Valentina and Patrick watched in a perplexed stupor as it trotted over to clearing’s perimeter, and buried its nose within a short shrub. 

“The feck…?” Patrick slumped on the spot and mussed his hair in confusion. The Nightmare turned its neck to look at them, then back to the shrub. Valentina narrowed her eyes, and something snapped into place in the back of her mind when she realised what the strange creature was doing. She set off across the clearing in a brisk walk. It took Patrick a second too long to break out of his distracted state.

“Val. Val, what’re you doing?!” he called. When Valentina made no answer, he zipped after her and closed the distance between them with impossible speed. She was already crouching to examine the shrub. The Nightmare moved away, and with its apparent objective fulfilled, galloped off into the darkness from whence it came. It left nothing in its wake but the uncanny disillusionment of a bad omen. “Val, what the bleedin’…”

Patrick trailed off as Valentina pulled at a dirty scrap of material caught in plant’s brambles. It was coarse to the touch and frayed in places, and even when held at arms-length between her thumb and forefinger it effused the faint smell of mildew. 

“What is that?” asked Patrick, wrinkling his nose in disgust. 

“That, my dear Watson, is what I was hoping not to find,” said Valentina. At having her suspicions confirmed, the knot of dread in her stomach tightened. “Someone has already come looking for them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Cacodemonomania (caco·de·mo·no·ma·nia): the psychological belief that one is inhabited or possessed by an evil spirit. This is not a disorder recognised by the DSM-5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - Fifth Edition). Therefore, even if such a disorder does exist, this definition should remain entirely fictitious in nature.
> 
> ** A Gaelige curse that when translated means, "That the devil makes splinters of your legs."


	7. The Art of The Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Tooth learns a cold, hard truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to say for myself.

After crossing entire countries, time-zones, and continents in a mere blink of an eye, Tooth and Pitch arrived at the palace at daybreak.

The mountainous landscape of Punjam HyLoo was a picture of majestic tranquillity. An early morning mist curled in the jungle valley below spires of volcanic rock formations, promising a bright, clear afternoon to come. However, what greeted Tooth and her new protégé within the mosaicked caverns of Tooth Palace was anything but serene.

Attempting to organise a behemoth filing system of collected lost teeth, iridescent specs zipped through the air with no discernable rhyme or reason as to their course. Tooth's hopes of a swift recovery would have been dashed that instant, had she not spied Baby Tooth attempting to restore some semblance of order. The little fairy with heterochromatic eyes and a whole lot of spunk hovered in the middle of the Nest—the central platform where Tooth usually gave out her orders—and directed her sisters when they seemed unable to do so themselves. Baby Tooth maintained a steely front but was clearly frazzled after such a long and unexpected shift. She kept shouting corrections to orders already spoken or pulling at tufts of her own feathers as she darted this way and that. Though wracked with guilt, the sight of Baby Tooth's diligence was cause for a swell of pride in Tooth's chest. She lifted her thumb and forefinger to her lips and blew a whistle so shrill, Pitch clamped his hands to his ears and winced. Every single one of her workers stopped as though time itself had frozen.

"Girls…" Tooth's voice was carried by a hollow echo that swept through the open palace. "…I'm so sorry."

The was a moment of stunned silence. Then the air exploded in pandemonium. The mini-fairies, all several thousand of them, rushed upon Tooth where she stood, paying little mind to Pitch at her side. Sunlight disappeared behind a turquoise cloud of feathers and wings as the fairies converged to hurl their chatter at her. Baby Tooth shoved her way to the front of the throng, twittering a barrage of distressed questions. And Tooth would have answered them—gladly. If only she could understand a word any of them were saying.

"Wait, slow down, all of you. One at a time," Tooth implored. It was no use. The fairies were frenzied. Their high-pitched chatter rose to unbearable heights, a thousand voices chirping and chittering at once, but none of them voices Tooth recognised. "Enough!" she yelled above the clamour. The wall of noise died away, leaving only the fluttering of wings. "I—I'm sorry for disappearing. Believe me, it was not by choice. I'll explain everything as best I can, but for now…I don't know what any of you are saying, and talking all at once is not going to help."

Several fairies drew away in surprise, others exchanged worried glances and whispers. Baby Tooth, being their de facto leader, flew over and landed in the cup of Tooth's waiting hands. She began to babble in earnest. To Tooth's dismay, she was still incomprehensible.

"Baby Tooth, I don't understand anymore," Tooth interrupted, her voice thickened by the lump in her throat. "I need a translator or someone-" She broke off with a squeak of realisation and turned to Pitch. "You can hear them now, can't you?"

"I could always hear them," Pitch grumbled, "they're no less irritating now than they were before."

"What I mean, you sack of…" Tooth screwed her mouth shut before she could unleash the string of insults on her tongue.

"Do go on," Pitch baited.

"What I mean is: you can  _understand_  what they're  _saying_."

Pitch did nothing to confirm or deny her suspicions. Not intentionally. He stood rigid with a look of dismay darkening his face that diverted the attention of every set of eyes to him. The word of the fairies spread like a contagion. Those that did not scream bloody murder might as well have been applying their war paint.

"Stop!" Tooth cried. "You  _cannot_  hurt him. That's an order. Don't even lay a finger on him, no matter how much you want to. Gods, do I know how much you want to…"

"Tick tock, Toothiana," Pitch growled.

"I know," she continued to her fairies, "you're frightened, you're confused, you're  _furious_  about what he did to you—to the children—to  _all_  of us…" Tooth's hands squeezed into fists as she gathered her own resentment within them. "…However, we have to put that anger aside. Without Pitch, we're doomed. There is a counter curse, but until North and Jack find it to restore things back to the way they were, we have no choice but to work together." Tooth looked over to Pitch and pressed her lips together. "None of us do."

Tooth spent the following hour attempting to field questions—a difficult feat when her middleman made a point of snapping at every interruption made by her frightened fairies. Ironically, their fear was the one thing Tooth didn't need Pitch to translate. She saw it in their collective flinch whenever he moved; the catching of their breath whenever he lowered or raised his voice, however benign his tone. Tooth understood. Every twitch, every flickering of Pitch's eyes was something to question. A sinister plot. A 'what if' she didn't want to know the answer to. And Pitch knew he had her attention. Like somehow, despite him being the one who was woefully entrapped, it was  _she_  who was staring into the jaws of a jackal. But just because Pitch could taunt and torture her with the mild threat of villainy, it didn't mean he had the palace and its residents trapped under his thumb.

For all Pitch's bravado and bluster, this misadventure behind enemy lines was already taking its toll. His slender shoulders buckled beneath consternation. The worrisome lines in his face deepened with each passing hour. And on ticked the tedious minutes dense with new information. Though an intelligent, cunning specimen, trying to keep up with Tooth's rapid-fire explanations of the palace's complex mechanics was proving too much even for him to wrap his head around.

And Tooth, while she was loath to admit to her own pettiness, would not deny her immense satisfaction in seeing his resolve slowly crumble.

Before long the fairies were caught up. Just as they reluctantly began to disperse, Sandy stumbled into the palace with a technicolour flash of light announcing his arrival. Not that Tooth had noticed. Unaware of her new guest, she supervised her workers, the cavern, and its continental pillars in a daze beneath heavy eyelids. Sandy strolled over to her and tugged on the grainy fabric of her clothes, startling her awake and Pitch into a defensive stance.

"Sandy! What are you doing here?" Tooth exclaimed. As she blinked away the fatigue that kept trying to creep up on her, the gnomish-looking Sandy reached into his pocket, pulled out a note, and passed it to her. "What's this?"

Sandy gestured for her to open and read it, which she did aloud.

_Dearest Toothie,_

_As we have no time to lose, Sandy will be taking you to the Isle of Dreams for an induction immediately. I hope Tooth Palace will not fall to ruin in your absence. Do not forget the snowglobes._

_Sincerely, North_

"Wait, as in right now?" asked Tooth.

Sandy nodded.

"But I'm not done here! We've barely gone over the location and filing systems, then there are the sector squads, not to mention what to do if he needs to put together a strike team."

"For  _what_?!" Pitch exclaimed.

Tooth gave a vague, frustrated grunt and hand gesture in his direction. "Sandy, he doesn't know what to do. And after everything he did to my fairies, Moon help us if you think it would be a good idea to trust him alone with them."

Sandy looked around Tooth's shoulder to see the horde still had their eyes fixed on Pitch, and snickered at their barely-restrained bloodlust. No; it most certainly was not a good idea—but not for the reasons that concerned her. With a shrug, Sandy opened a different snowglobe-portal, this time to his realm, and gestured for Tooth to step inside. At a loss for words, Tooth wrung her hands and muttered a reassurance to herself.

"Okay, okay, fine. It's not like they haven't worked without you before. They can still collect the teeth and you have Pitch to hold the fort…oh, Gods. No, no, it's okay. Baby Tooth is still here, she knows what to do. This doesn't have to be the end of the world… All right." With her mind made up, she turned to Pitch. "All that information you've been collecting in that big head of yours for the past day; use it. As it comes to you, tell the squads where to go. Baby Tooth will know what to do if you have any questions. I'll be back again before tomorrow. Hopefully." To Baby Tooth, she added, "Don't let him out of your sight."

Pitch stared at Tooth, blank and unresponsive. There was no biting remark. No insincere farewell. His lips remained sealed—and rather pale. It gave Tooth pause for the briefest moment. Should she, perhaps, have spared him some sympathy?

"One more thing," she added with a sigh. Pitch regarded her with a wary gaze as her expression shifted from gentle to unforgivingly stern. "Don't screw it up."

— O —

As their tour came to an end on the foreshore of the Isle of Dreams, Sandy stretched out his little arms and gestured to their surrounds in a question of approval. Tooth didn't know how to respond.

The island had much to admire; crystal cyan waters, tropic breezes and dazzling sunsets. Grains of sand blown loose by the wind drifted from the dunes, flying in coils of spun gold that gave the air a mysterious ambience. The result was a postcard paradise fused with the potential of unrealized fantasies.

However, mystical auras aside, there was no denying that what Tooth stood upon was a glorified mountain of sand with little else to boast. It drifted in a shallow reef beneath the dome of a clear, endless sky. A strong gust of wind might have blown it away. Let alone a tropical storm. Of the numerous small coves and inlets that shaped the island, there were one or two docked schooners between them. These were Tooth's only way to and from her new post, unless she felt confident in conjuring something with a little more torque, which she did not. Then there was Sandy's 'workspace'. While lavish and well furnished with a bed, kitchenette and writing desk, his quarters were modest and compact. Cramped even. Given that the island had formed from the star Sandy once captained after it fell to earth, this was not surprising. There was no need for grandeur when most of one's time was spent sleeping and creating the essence of dreams. But what was a Sister of Flight, a creature of pure freedom, supposed to say to such confinement?

"It's lovely, Sandy. I'm sure I'll be…I'll be just fine here," she answered at last.

Sandy beamed, pride colouring his cheeks with a rosy glow.

"So, is it really just you here all the time? All by yourself?"

Sandy expression took on a look of surprise, and his hand shot to his head; he had forgotten something. Beckoning Tooth over to the edge of the shore, where the waves rushed around her ankles in a sparkling foam, Sandy looked out across the water and squinted.

"Sandy, what are you…?"

Ignoring Tooth, Sandy turned and jogged a little way down the beach, to where a sandstone rock formation cropped out against the arc of the cove. He disappeared within one of its crevices. A few seconds later, he reemerged holding a creamy-white conch shell half the size of his own head and hurried back. It was riveted by spines, with streaks of fawn and golden brown that spiralled into a cone. Once at Tooth's side, Sandy drew a breath, lifted the cone of the shell to his lips, and blew. The sound swelled in a dual-toned herald that drifted out to sea. Beyond the rise and fall of the waves, several figures soon broke the water's surface. With each ebb and flow of the tide, they swam closer to shore, until the sheen of their scales was unmistakable. From the shallows, they stared up at Tooth and Sandy in eerie silence.

"They're… _mermaids_ ," Tooth whispered.

Sandy nodded, impervious to Tooth's disbelief, and greeted his visitors by taking each of their pale, blue-tinged hands in his own. Beneath seaweed, starfish and pearl wreathed crowns, the mermaids returned his greeting with congenial smiles. Their teeth were pointed.

"These are friends of yours?" Tooth asked slowly. Sandy nodded once again, oblivious to her wariness.

There was something hypnotic about these creatures that made them fascinating to behold. Beautiful, strong tails glistened in the ripples of liquid glass, lazily swaying and flicking with the pull of the current. Aquamarine scales adorned their bodies, like jewels that refracted sunbeams so they danced across the surface of the water. In their eyes, oceans surged. Tooth could have drowned in their teal and turquoise. But she wouldn't have minded, so long as they kept singing. They had to keep singing or she felt she would die. Their sweet, lilting songs would draw her further out to sea, the call of fathoms below irresistible like the pull of gravity. And as her panic slipped to the surface in the silver bubbles of her last breath, she might have even felt happy for it.

Tooth's heart jumped in her chest and she blinked, breaking the spell. The expression on the pale face of the mermaid closest fell to a sour pout. She appeared regal with her crown forged from mother of pearl, and yet seemed childishly petty upon having her little game be brought to an abrupt end. As dawning horror sent a chill down Tooth's spine, a sinister sense of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach.

She was about to be trapped on an island with creatures of immense, unfathomable power.

Creatures who wanted to drag her down to a watery death.

Suddenly, Sandy stood up. Facing Tooth, he dusted off his hands in a gesture that seemed oddly final. With a last wave to the mermaids, he turned and strolled up the beach to retrieve the snowglobes he had brought with him.

"Wait, you're leaving?" Tooth squeaked. She chanced a nervous glance over her shoulder, to where the mermaids' eyes watched her with an unwavering, collective stare. Her stiff legs propelled into motion and she raced up to the dunes to catch him. "Sandy, I don't think this is a good idea. Are you sure they can be trusted?"

Sandy frowned, deeply perplexed by her insinuation and nodded. Before he retrieved the bag containing his snowglobes, he picked up a piece of driftwood smooth as a bone and bleached by the sun. With it, he drew an image in the sand. A map of the island spiralled in curlicue tendrils with a crevice at its center—his quarters. From that centre, he wrote a trail of  _Z_ s drifting into the air and pointed to Tooth. He then dropped the stick and took a handful of the beach's glittering sand, running it between his fingers from hand to hand, over and over. To Tooth's abject dismay, she understood. She was to stay. Alone. To fulfil Sandy's duties in his absence, just as they had planned.

Well, she wouldn't quite be alone. There were always the mermaids to keep her company.

"You'll be back soon, right?" Tooth queried as Sandy took up his bag. He gave her a warm, reassuring smile, still radiant despite his rather dull robes and lack of magical dreamsand. He picked up the stick again and drew two lines, the hands of a clock striking ten. He would be back in the morning. In the meantime, Tooth's job was simple. She needed to give in to her fatigue and untether herself from worry and strife long enough to drift away.

To sleep, perchance to dream.

With that, Sandy reached into his robes and opened yet another portal, his third in as many hours. He must have pilfered more than his allotted two from North's stocks, Tooth mused. How very convenient for  _him_.

They bid their farewells. Once Sandy was gone, Tooth sighed and looked back out to the water. The sun had sunk below the horizon and the island was only visible by the light of a dying sunset. Narrowing her eyes through the gloom, she spied luminous, green specks hovering where the tide met the beach. Fireflies, perhaps.

No. Not fireflies. They couldn't be. Those were eyes. And below each pair, deadly crescent moon smiles.

Stifling a cry, Tooth turned tail and bolted for Sandy's quarters, the furthest point away from water—and therefore mermaids—in any direction. Once inside, she threw herself down onto the velvety red cushions that scattered his bed and squeezed her eyes shut. If she pretended hard enough, maybe she could convince herself she was home, with nothing outside but the sprawling, green, mountains of Punjam HyLoo. The whistle of the wind could be the sound of her fairies' wings as they took flight. The seabirds, her comrades of the skies.

As Tooth drifted off, she comforted herself by imagining the familiar chatter of nocturnal animals in a midnight jungle. But gradually, a haunting melody permeated the soundscape she created. A song sweet and strange seeped into the drowsy visions that flashed behind her eyelids. She was helpless to resist it.

**_Dreams, such dreams be in the sand you hold_ **

**_They summon all the darkling fears_ **

**_And make the night grow cold…_ **

What felt like a little while later, Tooth's eyes snapped open with her heart drumming a frantic tattoo. Something had disturbed her. A noise? Movement? Or did even the most benign shift in the air feel menacing when sleeping in a place that wasn't your own?

Tooth let out a discontented sigh, the sound of her own breath in the silence much too harsh for her liking. Laying in the dark of Sandy's quarters as her panic subsided, she wondered if she had succumbed to sleep after all. She didn't feel rested but even so, there was one way to find out. Veiled by a thick curtain that covered the wall behind Sandy's bed, a system of tubes, pipes, and chambers converted new dreams into dreamsand, which was then released out into the world. Tooth pulled back the curtain to reveal newly collected and softly glowing, albeit slightly amber tinged, particles. Despite the sudden, glaring light exposure, she couldn't refrain from grinning. She had slept. Maybe not much, but at least her report back to the others would evidence some progress. And at that point, any progress was welcome news. The only question was: how long had she been dead to the world? Peering into the night through Sandy's window gave her no clues. It was black as pitch out there.

_Pitch…_

Just like that, Tooth's glimmer of relief evaporated. It had to have been at least several hours since she had been dragged away from the palace. Enough time for her substitute to crack. And if Pitch had cracked, Tooth's stomach churned thinking that she might have left him in such a state—because her life was in his hands. Her life and the rest of the Guardians'. This worry she felt for him was not pity. Not in the slightest.

_Even if it is, it's not like he deserves it._

But strangely, the appeal of tormenting the (former) Boogeyman had since lost its shine. There was nothing Tooth found gratifying about picturing Pitch buckling under stress and tearing his feathers out. Not anymore. Perhaps deep down—very deep down—she was inclined to feel sympathetic towards his plight. After all, it was horrible to be in an unfamiliar place while faced with a daunting task. And even worse to be lonely but never quite alone…

With a jolt of realisation, Tooth sat bolt upright.

 _That_  was what had woken her. Not something, but some _one_ , and more than just one person at that—if they could even be called people. Sure enough, if she listened, she could still hear the high notes of their song floating on the breeze.

**_Dreams, such dreams… sand… hold…_ **

Tooth swallowed a moan. They were still out there. Worse still, when she let her vigilance slip, she could feel the charm of their voices work its way into her bloodstream to sedate her. If she wasn't careful, she would be too vulnerable to resist whatever sinister deeds they had planned.

 _So what are you going to do about it, Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies?_ the little voice of reason in her head snarked.  _Board up the doors and bury your head in sand?_

Tooth bit her lip. Her ancestors would have been ashamed of her cowardice, no doubt rolling in their mass grave. There was once a time before the Dark Ages where she had been a warrior. A queen among men! Though granted, those days were long gone. She had faced far worse than a few creepy fish and lived to tell the tale. To do so again would only take a little courage. And if courage was scarce, by that point Tooth had enough vexation and spite to carry out the utterly reckless decision she had made.

With no wings, no backup, and nothing with which to defend herself but her bag clutched in a tense fist, Tooth marched down the beach. She assured herself if worse came to worst, she always had her last remaining snowglobe to help her make a quick escape, plus the ones technically reserved for 'Mr. Flight-Risk'. Not to mention, she had a wicked right hook in her arsenal. Pitch could attest to that. But though the harmonies of the mermaids' voices still lingered in the air, when Tooth reached the shore there was no one to greet her.

"I know you're out there!" she called and cursed the quiver that seized her by the throat. "I'm warning you—you have no idea who you're messing with. So…quit stalking me and go back to wherever you came from!"

A head broke the surface of the water in a ring of bubbles. Tooth stifled a scream. The creature, only an arm's length away, pushed back the wet curtain of her hair to reveal angular features and gill-like slits for nostrils. As Tooth schooled her expression of fearful surprise, the mermaid spoke. She had a curious accent that rolled her words around her tongue with great effort before spitting them out.

"And who is it we are supposed to be 'messing with", as you so eloquently say?"

Tooth drew herself up and straightened her spine. "Toothiana, Queen of the Tooth Fairy Armies and Guardian of Memories."

The mermaid was silent for a beat, her expression impassive. "We are not used to hearing voices where there should be none."

"That makes two of us," Tooth retorted. "Who are you?" The mermaid ignored her question.

"What happened to the Star Captain? He told us he was going away."

"He is going away for a while, yes," Tooth replied carefully with her brow creased. "I'm filling in for him. It's…complicated."

Conversation ceased as Tooth and the mermaid studied each other by starlight; Tooth with caution, the mermaid with cunning. There was no moon to lend its light. Manny's inconvenient orbit had taken him far out of sight somewhere beyond the horizon, which meant Tooth was very much on her own.

"Moray," the mermaid said at last.

Tooth blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"My name." She rolled her eyes. "You asked what it was, did you not? My name is Moray."

"Oh. Pleased to meet—"

"I think my sisters would also enjoy a formal introduction," Moray interrupted and disappeared below the water's surface, leaving Tooth stunned and without a chance to protest.

"Wait, what? Seriously?! There's nothing formal about being rude," she yelled, but no one else heard besides her own rippling reflection; and a curious reflection it was. Tooth forgot her indignation for a spell as she took a closer look at the changes her transformation had wrought. For a start, she had hair. She hadn't had hair since she was twelve—and a mortal at that. Though to her dismay it's yellow hue had some rather brassy, amber tones. It was soft to the touch and sat atop her head in a twisting, tapering up-do, not unlike the silhouette of her feathered crown. Then there was her sari-like wrap, merely an illusion of sculpted, viscous sand. It was hard to tell where her supposed clothes ended and she began.

The effect of this vision was bizarre. Tooth felt like a stranger in her own body. Her one solace, she supposed, was that at least she got to keep her amethyst eyes.

A minute soon passed. Tooth's heart was pounding in anticipation. Another minute. Tooth was close to breaking her own fingers with how hard they were clenched. That was when Moray reemerged with her kin. Six heads broke the surface, immediately catching Tooth in their sights.

"Sisters, meet Toothiana. She is a queen," Moray announced to the newcomers, "…or so she says."

"Excuse me?" Tooth spluttered.

"Is she a fallen star as well?" a mermaid with a severely pointed chin asked.

"I bet she's a comet," another supplied. Her greyish lips puckered by a long, thin, diagonal scar curled in blatant disdain. "They never can stay with a single constellation for long. They just go from one to the next, picking up all sorts of space junk." Though she didn't quite catch it, Tooth could have sworn this one hissed something shameful under her breath.

"No!" Tooth refuted in a mixture of shock and confusion. "I'm not a comet, or—or anything like that. I'm from Earth. I was born here as a descendant of the Sisters of Flight."

"Sisters of Flight have wings but you do not," Moray observed blandly.

"How do you know that?"

"We live under water, not a rock."

"I…" Tooth's mouth gaped open. With every twist their increasingly pointless conversation took, she could feel herself losing ground as it turned to quicksand beneath her feet.

"Fine. They do. I mean, they  _did_. That's another matter. I also had wings right up until a day ago, but now someone else has them—hence why I'm here as a Dreamweaver, stranded on what should be a deserted island." Tooth looked pointedly at them and scraped her fingernails through her hair. "Look, I'm trying to help Sandy for his sake as well as my own, but I have no idea what I'm doing, let alone if I'm doing any of it right. I'm scared. I'm exhausted. And all of you with your singing and stalking are making this much harder than it needs to be!"

The mermaids contemplated Tooth's outburst in silence. They made no effort to speak or even acknowledge one and other, but who was to say they weren't somehow communicating all the same?

"Our sincerest apologies. We were only trying to help," Moray said eventually, and offered Tooth her hand in a token gesture of remorse. Was this a Mermish custom, to shake the hand of the one who was asking for your forgiveness? Tooth couldn't say for sure but she wasn't exactly in a position to refuse. Better to appease the creatures she suspected were more powerful than herself rather than risk offending them. She reached out to grasp the mermaid leader's ice-cold hand in her own.

The next thing she knew, she was drowning.

Tooth's arm was nearly ripped out of its socket by Moray, who gripped it and pulled her into the surf with a cackle. She tripped and plunged headlong with a spectacular splash. Seawater rushed up her nose and trickled into her lugs. Earth and sky rolled into one as she lost track of which way was up. Thrashing and kicking herself free of Moray's clutches, Tooth resurfaced to find herself surrounded.

"You really are trying to kill me," she coughed, attempting to ward the horde away.

"Kill you? Oh no. We were only trying to see if you really are a Dreamweaver like you said," the littlest mermaid with a crown of sea glass replied sweetly.

"Or a comet…" added the scar-lipped mermaid.

"But it would appear you are what you say," said Moray.

"What do you mean?" asked Tooth.

"The waters claim you, just as they do the Star Captain."

"What…?"

Tooth looked down at her hands to see the subtle luminescence of her particle skin had disappeared. Instead, it resembled the glutinous, tawny sludge where sea met sand. She wasn't just drenched in water; she was submerged. And to her horror, as she absorbed it little by little the water, in turn, was beginning to cloud. She was being washed away. Erased from existence.

With her heart in her mouth, Tooth dragged herself ashore to the mocking protests of the mermaids behind her. Her hand clumsily scraped against the ground. Half of it crumbled away bringing a terrified cry to her lips. It was painless, but nevertheless, the sight of losing a part of herself did not fail to send a wave nausea to her stomach. She couldn't disappear today. Not like this. She had sworn she would only leave when the very last child stopped believing. She had made an oath. It was non-negotiable.

Just like her need for a home where she wasn't adrift in the expanse of her own loneliness.

There was nothing more to be said. Not only was the Isle of Dreams a lawless wasteland of treacherous waters and terrifying sea hags, but it was also so isolated that Tooth struggled to see how anyone could stay and not feel like a prisoner in their own mind. The jeers of the mermaids had weevilled into her brain, and her own thoughts rose above them just to be heard. Their dissonant harmonies clashed and clattered until there was no room for anything else. It was too loud to bear. She was in danger.

Snatching a snowglobe from out of the folds of her drenched bag, Tooth set a course for the palace. A shattering of glass and a flash of light reduced her tribulations to almost nothing but the distant call of a bad memory.

Almost.

Tooth collapsed on the mosaic-tiled floors of the palace, wet, shivering and exhausted. The surface of her skin crumbled away as cold salt water seeped into the sand caking her body—or apparently, what  _was_  her body. She could have stayed there, crumpled on the ground for an eternity, never moving, never facing her abysmal failure as The Sandwoman.

But the furious drone of wings in flight was a little too disconcerting to ignore. As was the panicked scream that rang out from the Nest above.

Dragging herself to her feet and gazing up at the distant platform, Tooth wished upon the Moon that she could have somehow kept her wings. When she did at last clamber by precarious footholds to the landing, she saw what had become of her faithful army.

In her absence, the mini-fairies had decided to take matters into their own hands— _despite_  her explicit instructions. They circled in the flawless formation of military fighter jets. Below them, Pitch's arms were drawn over his head to cower from them and their relentless dive-bomb attacks. Tooth picked her jaw up off the ground just in time to stop a rogue fairy from skewering him in the side of the neck.

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!" she screeched. The fairies froze and stared at her, shocked by her sudden return and, Tooth would later realise, disturbed by her half-drowned appearance. "Explain yourselves— _NOW!_ "

Aggrieved and self-righteous, the fairies came forth to plead their case. Though Tooth's fury subsided as they rambled away, her heart sank. She had forgotten just how far removed she had become from her own flesh and blood. It was a crack of disconnect, grown to a crevice. Before long, her fairies would be calling to her across a canyon and she would be unable to hear. She needed assistance. But somehow, she didn't think Pitch was feeling charitable enough to translate.

"Alright, enough. Quiet, all of you." The fairies' chatter died down, much to her relief. "You'll have to tell me what happened later. I forgot about the language barrier. That was my mistake." Tooth looked around and shook her head to herself. "This whole thing has been a mistake."

The palace was an organizational disaster. Unprocessed collections were starting to gather in a pile on the ground, squads were falling into disarray, and here were her supposedly trustworthy workers, who could not set aside their thirst for revenge long enough to maintain the bare-minimum of childhood belief.

"That's it, everyone, go. Back to your duties, and make sure these teeth go away properly. Have you forgotten why we collect them? Why we are diligent? There are memories here. Precious, irreplaceable memories and it is our responsibility to guard them—not to go on a crusade when my back is turned! If I see anyone disobeying my orders again you'll be counting coins for a week, understood?"

The fairies nodded their solemn understanding and dispersed to sulk or seethe. Meanwhile, Tooth braced herself for an assault of livid insults from Pitch as he climbed back to his feet.

But Pitch did not move.

He refused to even raise his head from his curled position on the floor.

"They're gone. You can get up," Tooth grumbled. Still, Pitch didn't respond. Looking closer, she realised that it wasn't just his wings that were twitching. His whole body was quivering, uncontrollably it seemed. "Pitch?" Without thinking, Tooth reached out a hand to prod him, but just as her fingers brushed his shoulder, he flinched and violently recoiled.

"Get away from me!" Pitch screamed, assuming a position of defence. Tooth gasped and snatched her hand away, deafened in the now cathedral silence of the palace. In the low light of dusk, Pitch's black feathers rippled like raised hackles. His razor wings flared out behind him. With his face contorted in a vicious snarl, his piercing, golden eyes locked with hers. "Get away," he growled again.

From what Tooth knew of Pitch, he rarely lashed out. Even when he did, there was still a calculated cause and effect to his every move. Nothing was done without purpose or impeccable control. But now he had no control. Not over his situation. Barely over himself. There had emerged a terror in his eyes, a wild sort that Tooth had only ever seen in him one time before.

"Just leave me alone. The show's over," Pitch said, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion when she made no move to do…whatever it was he thought she was doing. Tooth stood rooted to the spot in silence, long enough for Pitch's fear to pass and give way to suspicion. "What are you waiting for? You came to check on your precious mosquitos. You've seen that I am utterly powerless against them. What more is there for you here? Your vacation island awaits."

Tooth's mouth dropped open and all at once her frustration at the sheer ludicrousness of her misadventure boiled over.

"Vacation? Are you serious?" she hissed.

"Why yes. Sleeping, making sandcastles, socializing with the locals…" Pitch bore his teeth in a sneer at her half-dried hair. "Isn't that what a vacation is all about? Honestly, I don't know why you'd ever want to leave."

"For your information, I was nearly drowned by a group of sociopathic mermaids!" Tooth snarled. "This has been far from a holiday, in fact, I don't think I've ever been more stressed out in my life. You think those water demons rolled out the welcome wagon? Guess what: they like to sing creepy lullabies full of thinly veiled threats to pass their time!" She threw her hands around, gesticulating to the sky as her voice cracked from exasperation. "I tried. Moon knows I tried to make it work but I just couldn't do it, okay?!"

Breathing heavily, it was a few seconds before Tooth realised there were no snide remarks trying to bring her down a further peg. She looked over, expecting to find Pitch revelling in the smug triumph of watching her suffer. Instead, he was staring at her in mild shock.

"Toothiana, what happened to your hand?"

"My…" Tooth glanced down and was greeted by the sight of her mangled appendage. It looked far more gruesome in half-decent lighting. "Oh, that." Hastily, she shoved the two remaining digits still attached to her behind her back, out of sight. "It's nothing, don't worry about it."

"I think your definition of 'nothing' may be a little skewed," said Pitch as he tried to get a better look at her deformity.

"I think you need to mind your own business," she snapped and edged away.

Pitch stopped. A peculiar expression crossed his face, one Tooth had trouble deciphering. If he was concerned, he seemed conflicted about it, and if she hadn't known any better, she might have even thought he looked offended.

"Very well," he said, his voice reverting to its usual cold, clipped tones. "You clearly have other things to attend to, so why don't you run along and leave me in peace?"

"That's the thing," said Tooth. There was a beat of stony silence between them. "I'm not going back."

"What?" Pitch asked lowly.

"I told you. I can't do it." Unshed tears brimmed at Tooth's eyes, long overdue for release. But to let them fall in front of Pitch would be worse than any humiliation she had suffered since the nightmare began. "I mean, this is a joke. I'm not a Dreamweaver! I wasn't made to do this and it shows because I failed. Besides, even if I did go back, you know those  _things_  would be waiting for me right where I left them. I'm not about to put myself through that kind of peril again."

Pitch let out a bark of laughter, a cackle so harsh it sounded manic. It died away until he had but a small breath to hiss, "Oh, this is rich."

"What did you say?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" Pitch looked up to the cavern's ceiling and shook his head. Tooth couldn't help but notice he was grinding the enamel on his molars to dust. "What was it you said before you left me here to fend off your bloodthirsty little harpies? Ah, I remember now…  _Don't screw it up_. Interesting how you never gave  _me_  the option to fail, but as soon as everything became too hard for you, you allowed yourself to run back home with your tail between your legs."

Tooth froze as colour rushed to her cheeks. She burned with shame upon realising what she had done. "That's not what I meant," she mumbled.

"No, that's exactly what you meant." Pitch stalked towards her, his eyes fixed and unshifting. "'Don't screw it up because if you do, children will stop believing. Don't screw it up because if you do, the Guardians will surely perish. Don't screw it up because I never thought about anything other than my own selfish needs.' Only, now you know. You know how it feels to face the wrath of a realm that would much prefer you dead."

"They don't want you dead," Tooth argued feebly as she backed away. It was all she could refute when everything else he had said was so painfully true. "They're just…not thrilled about you being here of all places."

"Funnily enough, neither am I! However, I have a long history of making do with what I have. I adapt, therefore I overcome. But you, Toothiana," he said as he inched uncomfortably closer, "you with all your order and obsessive need for organization, have never had to improvise a day in your life. Now the time has come and instead of rising to the challenge, you crumble. The Guardians will be disappointed, naturally, but unlike me at least you won't be drawn and quartered for abandoning your post!"

Tooth should have been more insulted, perhaps chastised by the verbal dressing down. She  _should_  have felt some semblance of outrage mixed with her own shame. She  _should_  be trying to defend herself. But the moment Pitch punctuated his final words with a snake-like lunge towards her, she found her concerns turning elsewhere.

Namely, to the lack of a platform under the foot she used to step away from the furious Dark Fairy.

She tilted backwards, back bowing in the instinctive urge to beat her wings into gear. But she had no wings, and no control over her hastily inherited levitation abilities. There was nothing but the air separating her and the ground a few hundred feet below; provided she didn't hit a few scattered towers and bridges on her way down.

_I should have stayed with the homicidal goldfish. Maybe they would have made things quick at least._

Tooth was on the verge of screaming in terror when an almost painfully tight vice clamped over her good hand's wrist. A jerk of her shoulder alerted her of her sudden cease in descent, followed by a choked gasp as she was yanked forward and virtually swung onto the platform's centre. She blinked dumbly, disoriented by the sudden whirlwind.

Still, somehow Tooth's eyes found the source of her rescue, grip still clasped around her wrist, feverish and white-knuckled. She and Pitch stared at one another, eyes wide and expressions twisted in differing forms of shock. Tooth was reeling from narrowly escaping death's clutches. Pitch, however, suddenly appeared to hold her former position; as if faced with a wild and unpredictable animal. His feathers ruffled, raised like obsidian spikes, and his crest twitched into a less-than-pleased flair. A strangled yelp left his lips as he suddenly yanked his hand away from Tooth, cradling the appendage with its twin, as if burned or stung. Tooth flinched at the sudden movement, taking in the various twitches and ruffles of his plumage; under the control of someone who did not know how to conceal the betrayal of his emotions through them.

She blinked again, her vision broadening. The mini-fairies surrounding them, were all apparently torn on how to react, but leaning towards defending their queen from a possible attack. Baby Tooth seemed particularly cautious, if not outright concerned for Tooth, and perhaps for the mental state of their recently acquired substitute.

With the adrenaline drained out of her, Tooth could feel every single emotion, word, and action she had performed in the past few hours come back in full black and white context. 'Petty' was a good way to describe what she felt for herself then. 'Spoiled Princess' seemed even more fitting. She had made the decision to leave Pitch to his own devices, knowing full-well he was ill-prepared at best, and entirely at the mercy of the palace and his unasked-for abilities at worst. She was the one who had condoned her fairies' animosity towards him, and as tiny parts of herself, had aided and abetted their vendetta against him. She had left _knowing_ that it wouldn't be her fairies facing danger in her absence, but Pitch himself.

A single fire-ant, while mildly concerning, is easily thwarted; but throw a bird to a nest of millions, then the bird stands no chance. Like that proverbial swarmed bird, Pitch had hardly been able to cry for help. Not when Tooth had been decidedly unsympathetic toward him and his plight. Worse yet, putting him in danger had put not just her job at risk, but the memories she was supposed to guard. This wasn't just a grudge anymore; it had devolved into a childish need for vindication.

At the end of the day, Pitch was just as trapped as she was, and just as terrified for his place in the world. So alongside being a short-tempered brat, she was also a hypocrite. As much as it killed her a little to admit it…

"You're right," she said.

Pitch stiffened, the hand cradling his other wrist tightening to what appeared an almost painful grip; far tighter than he'd had on her own wrist.

"I beg your pardon?"

Tooth sighed. Every ounce of fight, energy and will left her in one shaky breath.

"You're right," she repeated through a tight jaw. "This isn't…I'm not being fair. To you. And by association, I'm not being fair to my fairies, the teeth, or the children." She swallowed thickly, a touch unnerved by the way Pitch was staring at her.

"Did you drink the sea water out there?" he suddenly asked.

And for some  _lunatic_ unknown reason _,_  Tooth sharply inhaled and  _laughed._

Now Pitch was looking at her as if she were the madwoman and he, the scandalized peacock that so inspired him. The thought only made her laugh harder. By that point, her fairies were growing increasingly concerned, chirping quietly to one another.

Eventually, Tooth's hysterics subsided. She winded herself as her cackles reduced to wheezes, and then to eye-watering hiccups while she tried to pull herself together. Perhaps on another day, one less fraught with devious mermaids, fairy coups and several near-death experiences, Tooth might have felt more embarrassed for appearing, for all intents and purposes, as though her last three remaining brain cells had snapped. However, she was willing to forgive herself for what she felt was a rather justified lapse in self-control.

On the other hand, it was time she sobered and rectified her wrongs.

"Given my, um, sudden mental break just now," Tooth gasped, brushing residual tears from her eyes, "this is going to sound a little odd."

"I'm not sure there's much more you could do to surprise me," Pitch replied. "Not that you should take that as a challenge," he added warily.

"In light of our, well, obligatory partnership," she continued, pacing slowly, "not to mention the fact that you actually saved my life just now—thank you, by the way." Pitch looked askance but this, Tooth ignored. "I was thinking maybe we could call a truce? At least while you're here."

Did attempting to be the bigger person wound what little was left of Tooth's pride? Like a knife to her chest. Did it shock the crowd of mini-fairies into a silence of morbid fascination? Nothing had ever worked better. However, whether the sentiment was returned, her integrity told her she owed Pitch some semblance of an apology.

"A truce," Pitch repeated carefully, barely trusting the taste of the word on his own tongue.

"Yes. If you extend the same courtesy to me, I will try to be patient and understanding to better help you learn what it takes to be the Guardian of Memories. It'll be a hard slog, but we can take breaks when things getting too much for you or I to handle safely and practically. Then, and only then, do we stop working. Otherwise, it's full-steam ahead. In the meantime, I'll have to figure out what I'm going to do about Sandy and my responsibilities." Tooth tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, finding in times of anxiety this new feature of herself served as something of a crutch. "Also Pitch, under no circumstances do I intend for myself, my fairies or this job to harm you."

Pitch appeared taken aback, his hand still cradled in front of his abdomen. The feathers framing his face twitched in silent contemplation, as did his wings; reflexes Tooth realised she should consider teaching him how to control. Despite his obvious hesitation—for how could either of them be expected to trust the other—Tooth sensed a small glimmer of relief from Pitch. Not much, admittedly, but it was a start. Or so she thought.

"You'll be hard pressed to convince me, Toothiana, no matter how virtuous your intentions, just as I'm sure you will continue to harbour reservations about me…"

Tooth's hopes plummeted in one fell swoop. Obviously, Pitch would never agree to a truce, no matter how lenient the terms of peace. Anyone could have guessed that.

"…But we have to try and make this work, don't we? If I ever want to roam free in my own realm again, I have no choice."

Then again, perhaps Pitch still had the ability to surprise her. It wasn't forgiveness, of course. Neither of them were ready for quite that level of reconciliation. But the seed that planted itself in Tooth's chest, which she felt would bloom over the coming days or weeks, whispered at the end of that statement,  _not_   _yet_.

"Fine," said Pitch, "but I have a few conditions of my own." He flashed her a cold smile "If you have no objections, that is."

"Go ahead," Tooth replied, wondering just how much she was about to regret holding out an olive branch.

"One: I need enough time to train Frost. Don't forget, you're not the only one with a clueless protégé. Two: if those glorified hair accessories attack me as they did this evening even one more time, I reserve the right to either dole out a…reasonable…punishment, or leave. And three: you, Toothiana, are not allowed to touch me."

Tooth couldn't help the brow that rose at his latter, unprecedented request. She had no desire to do anything of the sort. Granted it had been out of necessity, but technically it was Pitch who had touched her first.

Whatever.

None of his other conditions were terribly unreasonable, and as long as it meant they could co-exist in relative harmony, Tooth willing to set aside her reluctance and accept.

"As long you don't punish my fairies unfairly, or without my express permission. They're still under my protection, remember that," said Tooth.

"Well, you can't blame me for trying," Pitch snipped.

There followed a tense silence as Tooth massaged her temples to fend off an oncoming headache. Pitch appeared in no better shape, his feathers ruffled and his own temple pulsing. Not to mention, the way he was grinding his jaw was going to send Tooth into a conniption from all the dental damage he was bringing upon himself.

"For the record," Pitch added, "I would rather this wasn't happening at all."

"Well, I guess we're just going to have to get along anyway," Tooth gritted out, "because for better or worse we're stuck with each other."

"So it would seem."

As the sun set on another bright, clear day in Punjam HyLoo, Tooth felt the dregs of her energy drain with the last of the twilight. It would only be for a few days at the most. Then Jack and North would find their counter curse, and all would be as it was. Nothing but a sour memory. Or so help her, Tooth would be out for their blood. Until then, they would attempt to survive each other. But there was still one question on the minds of the workers, their Queen, and their honorary Fairy King.

"Truce?" asked Tooth.

"Truce," said Pitch.


End file.
